


Bananas and Shame

by arcaladiwoompa



Series: Terawatt Outlaws [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Also rated by chapter, Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Illustrated, M/M, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Xenobiology
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-06
Updated: 2018-03-25
Packaged: 2018-08-13 07:52:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7968511
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arcaladiwoompa/pseuds/arcaladiwoompa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia</p><p>Isoamyl acetate, also known as isopentyl acetate, is an organic compound that is the ester formed from isoamyl alcohol and acetic acid. It is a colorless liquid that is only slightly soluble in water, but very soluble in most organic solvents. Isoamyl acetate has a strong odor which is also described as similar to both banana and pear.  Isoamyl acetate is released by a honey bee's sting apparatus where it serves as a pheromone beacon to attract other bees and provoke them to sting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This side fic takes place after Terawatt Outlaws.
> 
> Some chapters will contain explicit material, others will be all silliness, so I'm making a note of the ratings in each chapter for those of you who may want to read T rated stuff only.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: M or E for half a paragraph, after "Praise Gl’bgolyb, he’s an idiot". The rest is rated T.

You barely recognize yourself anymore. Not only have you not missed a single meal in an entire perigree because you get so ravenous it feels like your protein chute is trying to turn itself inside out and corrode your innards, you often find yourself getting into snacks in between meals. Waggon doesn’t even ask anymore; all you have to do it look at him. You swear to god you haven’t been this hungry since before your adult molt. Fuck it, at this rate you wouldn’t be surprised if you have _another_ adult molt. Your skin is certainly starting to feel tight and uncomfortable enough. 

You also pass out at the same time every day, regular as clockwork, no matter how interested you were in the project you were working on before taking a swan dive into your recuperacoon, because the minute you dare to stay up you find yourself nodding off in the middle of a line of code with your head lolling on your chest, slowly forming a puddle of drool on your shirt. 

As much as you loathe training with Dirk, you’ve grown cripplingly dependant on your routine. You have to burn off your excess energy _somewhere_ or it will drive you shithive manic all week. When you wake up in the evening your eyes are so bright you make KK squint and complain if you don’t have your shades on. Dumping power into the ship batteries is starting to feel so satisfying it’s embarrassing. If you don’t watch yourself you might actually start to complain that the ship batteries are too full, then all the other ex-helmsmen will really look at you like your head isn’t screwed on right. 

Someday you swear you’re going to beat Dirk at his own game, but for now you’re far from good enough at sword fighting and keeping a hawk eye on him is the best you can do. He’s teaching you all the basics; how to stand solidly on your feet, how to hold and swing your sword with the proper balance; how not to hurt yourself like an idiot. You’re slowly memorizing as much as you can about how to read his movements, filing the information away for your later advantage. You’re getting a few ideas for revenge, but you want to have more assurance in your ability to pull it off before you make a serious attempt, or at least stop getting distracted by his body for long enough not to completely fuck up. 

Nope, not going there. Your head is so far up your own nook in denial that you’ve lost your metaphorical arms at the shoulder. Never mind that you’ve been getting some of your most brilliant ideas related to your ongoing robotics project because you need to one up him. Never mind that continuously losing to Dirk in an actual fight takes all the fun out of beating him at video games. He tackles you to the ground with his blade at your throat and his ass damned near sitting in your lap and tells you, “Huh, you smell like bananas,” like it comes as a surprise that you reek so pungently with pitch pheromones a _human_ can smell it. Praise Gl’bgolyb, he’s an idiot. You most definitely do not pop a wriggly at sword point, finish up training in a real hurry and gasp out his name too quietly to be heard over the shower as you ghost your psionics over your bulge. What does his human bulge look like? Is it orange like his eyes or red like his blood? You want it to be long and monstrously thick, filling your seedflap to bursting. You bite your own arm to keep from screaming, translucent yellow lubricating fluid dribbling down your thighs. Oh god, you have a problem. 

You have to ask TV to take care of the bees for you, because there’s no way you can go anywhere near the server room without upsetting them like this. The helmscolumn is near the server room, which means it’s going to become a bigger problem as soon as it’s your turn for battery duties again. Fuck your life. Tavros has your eternal gratitude for not giving you shit about it. You owe him such a huge favor you promise to join him and Jade in a game of Fiduspawn later. 

You’re not sure if you’re ready to tell Karkat, let alone admit it aloud to yourself, but he’s blocking your path down the corridor with a scowl on his face and his arms folded across his chest and okay he’s right you should have come to him for a feelings jam long before you let get this bad. You are the worst moirail, it’s you. You cave in on yourself a little in sheepish resignation as you thread your fingers into his and let him drag you off to his respiteblock. His possessions are so sparse the only thing he has to make some semblance of a pile out of is his smelly woolly beast cloak. It’s okay because you have your arms wrapped around him and your chin resting between his horns. He buries his claws in the hair at the base of your neck and scratches there until you melt. 

“KK, KK this is terrible.” The words start spilling out of you like a jail cell door has been thrown open. “Do you know what DR’s making me do?” 

***

_The warm up stretches **hurt**. Your neck and shoulders are such a disaster you feel like your head might fall off any minute. The long thin muscles running down the front of your thighs are tight like a pinched nerve, and before this you didn’t even know they existed. Your back protests in a way that makes you suspect MT will laugh at you if you dare to complain aloud. Dirk tells you this is what you get for sitting on your ass hunched over your husktop all day._

***

_Lifting weights? That’s easy. You can lift this entire goddamned ship and then some. That is, until Dirk catches you cheating._

_“No psionics.”_

_“I see what you did there.”_

_“Stop that.”_

_“Do I have to twist psitanium wires around your horns?”_

_“Okay, okay! Don’t even joke about that DR, fuck.”_

_After that you have to set all the machines down to an embarrassingly low weight and slowly work your way up._

[ ](http://imgur.com/KC1H6rZ)

[ ](http://imgur.com/k60ozeF)

***

 _Crunches are one of the worst forms of torture ever invented. You’re lying on the ground like a pathetic wriggler and you can barely make it to thirty without your abs burning like they’re on fire. Your lungs keep running out of air._

_Dirk is showing off like an asshole, hanging upside down from the chin up bar and bending at the waist until he’s doubled all the way over. He never lets gravity drag him all the way back down on the descent. His sleeveless shirt, on the other hand, rides up almost to his armpits, exposing his pectorals and the solid washboard on his abdomen. He works up fine beads of sweat, mostly on his forehead._

_He’s so pink. The mammalian nipples and the little indent where he used to have an umbilical cord are weird, but not enough to stop your mouth from watering at the sight of him. There’s a little puff of blond hair in the middle of his chest, and another trailing down from his navel to the waistband of his shorts. It looks so soft. You want to trail your fingers through it and see where it leads you. You want to run your claws down his fragile human skin and make him shiver._

***

 _Dirk is demonstrating the proper form for push ups, up on his toes with his back as straight as a plank of wood. You’re having trouble paying attention to what he’s explaining because your choice view of his ass from this angle is too distracting._

_“Your turn, babycakes.”_

_FUCK. You are startled when he turns to look expectantly at you. As you try to copy him, your traitorous body bends like a cooked noodle._

_Dirk has a quietly amused chuckle at your expense. “I find it hilarious that you can lift an apartment complex with your brain and you can’t do one proper push up. Looks like we’ll have to make this easier for you.”_

_He makes you do the next set of push ups **on your knees**. The worst part is that they’re still difficult._

***

 _Eight laps later, Dirk has already passed you **twice**._

_“I believe in you, Seabiscuit!”_

[ ](http://imgur.com/7wMWtCa)

_“What the fuck," you pant, "is a Seabiscuit?” Later you find out by wasting two hours of your life watching a stupid human horse racing movie. Tavros loves it. Karkat is uncharacteristically quiet as he slouches against you on the couch because he can’t stop shoveling Waggon’s toasted crickets into his face gash._

_You can’t breathe and your legs feel like they’re encased in concrete. Your skin is host to a thousand disgusting little rivulets of sweat. Fuck towels, you need a long, cold shower._

[](http://imgur.com/Pu9unkB)

***

Your face is burning from your cheeks all the way to the tips of your ears. “You see what I have to put up with? If I have to do one more push up I’m going to scream. And to add insult to injury he puts on the weirdest, stupidest work out music, like what the fuck am I even listening to? My poor innocent ears KK, what did they do to deserve this kind of assault?” 

“Holy shit, he’s a keeper,” Karkat whispers reverently, his eyes like saucers. “Confront him.” He’s only been waiting for you to dump your quadrant problems on him for ten thousand sweeps. At least you can take solace in the fact that your moirail is reveling in your misery. 

“KK have you missed the part where he’s _not even a troll_?”

“Okay I probably would have thrown a shitfit about it two sweeps ago but now? Big fucking deal. You are both sentient grown-ass adults. You know the only reason the imperial propagandartists frown on sloppy interspecies makeouts is because they don’t produce any grubs.” 

“How is it going to _work_?”

“Let me remind you that I did not suddenly become an alien expert overnight, but I’m going to go out on a limb here and say it can’t be that different from any other relationship ever, i.e. you have to fucking talk to him and agree on something that works for both of you.” 

That sounds both lame and true. You deflate sullenly. “I’m not ready.” 

“Just try not to let it fester for too long.” 

It’s hard to stay worked up when Karkat pulls back to cup your face in his hands, gently stroking over your cheekbones with his thumbs. You really needed this. You let your eyes fall closed with a sigh. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Workout Sollux is my spirit animal.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: T. All silliness.

There’s suffering through the indignities of the gym at the hands of Dirk alone, and then there’s suffering through the indignities of the gym with an audience. Much to your surprise, the latter is not invariably worse. 

***

MT is as insufferable as you expected. You just don’t have the heart to snark back in the face of his needling while he’s at the mercy of MP and her iron grip. Now that all of her ex-helmsman patients are healed or back on the mend, she has returned to the task of making your Ancestor walk again with single minded determination. You’re willing to be MT’s entertainment because she’s been making the poor asshole do laps around the gym with a walker for _weeks_. Looking stupid with your ball exercises pales in comparison. If that never happens to you it will be too soon. 

Tonight he’s feeling lucky. Tonight his legs are just a little bit less spindly and a little more balanced. MP gives him the go ahead and he graduates to two canes. It isn’t the slightest bit faster than last night’s lap, but this one is a victory. “Yeah, bitches!!” At the end of his lap he waves both newly acquired weapons around dangerously above his head, whooping and grinning. You have just enough energy to put in a final push of effort on your fifteenth lap, high fiving him as you blur past where he’s standing. 

***

Jade is your sweet, sweet vicarious retribution. She’s shorter than Dirk, but she’s all muscle. She can disarm him with a well-placed kick of her boots and use his own momentum against him to toss him over her shoulder. She outlifts him in weights, and when she runs she leaves him in the dust with Bec galloping in great strides by her heels. You need to get Jade to teach you some of her sweet martial arts moves. You are not above begging and offering to do her chores for the rest of the sweep if it will give you a leg up on that smirking shithead. 

***

It takes a while to convince Karkat not to flee the vicinity instantly whenever there another living soul sets foot in the gym. Old habits die hard. He trains out of paranoia, constantly on alert for the next attack. He wants to avoid any comments on the color of his sweat and is especially secretive when he takes a pair of sickles off the weapons rack on the off chance that he might cut himself. What’s the point of fighting alone against your imagination? It’s depressing to watch and it’s counterproductive. How the hell is he going to keep his skills sharp without anyone real to practice against? Oh shit, you didn’t mean to bring up such a harsh reminder that he’ll never strife with his lusus again, and now you miss your moody, half-witted Bicyclops too. You lose your taste for antagonism until you’ve let Karkat have a good cry and papped him back into one piece. After that you occasionally get some extra practice sparring with him. You’re more of a hindrance then a help. Barely any of his critiques of your sloppy technique make it from your ears to your think pan because he’s trying to adjust your bad posture with his hands and all you want to do is lean in and nuzzle his cheek and purr. 

“Are you even listening?” 

“Mmmm-hmm.” 

“OH MY GOD Sollux, we are in PUBLIC you hussy.” 

“Ehehe sorry.” 

In the end he somehow manages to rope Waggon into sparring with him instead. Dirk suspects MP may have had a hand in getting him out of the kitchen and off his ass. At first the chef is so rusty he’s painful to watch, but he does have sweeps of Empire sanctioned training that Karkat never could have taught himself from impromptu lusus squabbles and video feeds. 

***

Tavros goes to the gym diligently, at first mostly to exercise his wings and to get his legs back into shape, but after that holy shit he is just one big wall of friendly rippling muscle and he stays in the habit of keeping it that way. More often than not you and Dirk get roped into a three dimensional flying game of Frisbee with him and some of the ex-Helmsmen. Sometimes Jade will borrow his rocket board and join instead, and it’s projectile mayhem as Bec jumps far higher than you ever thought possible to get in on the action. 

***

Some of Dirk’s music isn’t actually half bad if you rifle through his collection at random, which means he’s serenading you with [this nonsensical garbage](http://www.thesixtyone.com/s/7O9vpyHWdxy) on purpose. 

“Oh for fuck’s sake it’s my turn to pick the soundtrack already.” 

“Are you kidding?” MT’s ears perk up and his smile widens. “This speaks to me on an atomic level!” 

You would execute a double facepalm if you didn’t need your arms right now. “How are we even related?” 

“Everybody shut up, it’s my turn to pick the music.” Karkat curtails the argument by queuing up his playlist of [old school gangster rap](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JyX7dHmaRlA).

Okay normally this isn’t your cup of tea but doing one armed rows suddenly make songs about punching the shit out of people much more relevant to your interests. “One vote in favor.” 

MT’s eyebrows nearly fly off his face. “One vote against. Have some respect, kid. Your old man Vantas is shitting a brick in his grave. Can’t you pick anything less violent?” 

“Fuck you, there’s a reason why I don’t have love songs in my workout playlist.” He complains, but after removing 75% of his playlist he still miraculously ends up with [something](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=otCpCn0l4Wo) [usable](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AqeIiF0DlTg).

“Uh, can I pick a song too, please?” 

“Oh why the fuck not.” 

[Karkat regrets his decision immediately.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aYNFoI7vOzk) “Oh my god.” 

“Hahaha this is gold.” 

“Ugh, TV, I thought you liked slam poetry. Please put it back.” 

“Okay!” 

It’s too late for you; Dirk already has a predatory look in his eye. You can only escape the onslaught of embarrassing anime music once. 

***

Of all the things you expected to be doing in the gym, playing Fiduspawn with TV wasn’t one of them. Actually you’re using the term ‘playing’ very loosely, since Tavros insists that the two Horsaroni game constructs from your illegal download should not in fact be fighting each other. He’s teaching you how to ride your very purple, very squishy steed, and it’s a lot harder than he makes it look. How the fuck does he manage one handed balancing a heavy lance while his mount sails gracefully over a volleyball net when you can barely hang on for dear life with both arms as soon as yours goes from slow as hell plodding to a light jog? Okay this is actually a lot of fun once you get past the initial bowel clenching terror. And the way it leaves your thighs so sore you can’t walk straight afterward, holy fuck. All hail the Camp Master; you will never underestimate him again. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Music links in order; please let me know if any links are broken.
> 
> [The Upstairs Room – Smack My Lollipop](http://www.thesixtyone.com/s/7O9vpyHWdxy)
> 
> [LL Cool J - Mama Said Knock You Out](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JyX7dHmaRlA)
> 
> [MC Hammer – U Can’t Touch This ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=otCpCn0l4Wo)
> 
> [Destiny’s Child – Lose My Breath ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AqeIiF0DlTg)
> 
> [ DDR – Butterfly Pikachu Remix](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aYNFoI7vOzk)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: M. Sollux finally caves and accesses Psii's cliff notes on humans.
> 
> I've actually had this chapter written for a while but hadn't posted it because I was still trying to decide what order certain plot points should go in.  
> ______

Here you are hiding behind a stack of boxes in the cargo bay again; holing up in your respiteblock would make you too easy to find. Your cursor is hovering over the link, suspended for the thousandth time between dread and morbid curiosity. Do you want to follow your Ancestor’s advice? Do you really want to know? Fuck it. It’s probably better for you to find out now before you stumble into a nasty surprise and embarrass yourself or worse. You steel yourself. You hold your breath. You click. 

**HELM5MAN’5 LOG: HUMAN5**

5EE AL50: PLANET EARTH

2 ANYBODY WIITH HIIGH ENOUGH CLEARANCE 2 READ THII2 2HIIT AND IIN PO55E55IION OF MORE THAN A 5IINGLE BRAIIN CELL, PLEA5E TAKE MY ADVIICE AND PRETEND IIT WA5 YOUR IIDEA ALL ALONG. II’LL GIIVE YOU A BIIG KII55, YOU 5EXY, IINTELLIIGENT ADMIIRAL. OKAY FIINE MAYBE II’LL 5TOP FUCKIING UP YOUR 5HOWER WATER TEMPERATURE ON A WHIIM IIN5TEAD. 5EE? II CAN BE REA5ONABLE. 

2 EVERYBODY EL5E, AT LEA5T FREE MY HAND5 FOR A 5ECOND 5O II CAN 5MACK MY5ELF IIN THE FACE REPEATEDLY. NOBODY LII5TEN5 TO THE GODDAMNED PII55BLOOD. 

NOTE THAT 13 EARTH YEAR5 ARE EQUIIVALENT 2 5IIX 5OLAR 5WEEP5. ONE EARTH YEAR CON5II5T5 OF 12 LUNAR PERIIGREE5 5PANNIING A TOTAL OF 365.25 DAY5. 

THE FOLLOWIING DE5CRIIPTIION II5 A BROAD GENERALIIZATIION AND MAY NOT APPLY TO ALL IINDIIVIIDUAL5 OF THE 5PECIIE5. 

APPEARANCE:

HUMAN5 ARE A 5ENTIIENT 5PECIIE5 OF BIIPEDAL PLACENTAL MAMMAL5 ORIIGINATING FROM PLANET EARTH. 5UPERFIICIIALLY THEY BEAR AN UNCANNY RE5EMBLANCE 2 TROLL5, WIITH THE NOTABLE DII5TIINCTIION THAT THEY LACK HORN5. ADULT HUMAN5 ARE 5EXUALLY DIIMORPHIIC. REFER TO ANATOMY FOR DETAIIL5. 

You refer to Anatomy for details before you can change your mind. If you’re honest with yourself it comes as a bit of relief that the subheading is filled with unsexy medical diagrams full of vaguely mysterious internal organs that are just different enough to strike you as weird. Why does anyone need that many coils of intestines? It must be the herbivorous portion of their diet with those flat teeth, because the instant they eat raw meat that’s slightly less than fresh their protein chute acid isn’t strong enough to destroy all of the bacteria inside and they get violently ill. They can’t possibly produce a bucket full of slurry; there’s no room for internal globe structures behind the folds of their digestive tracts. 

Males have no nook… and that bulge is so nubby you practically need a microscope to even find it. Okay this isn’t nearly as much of a deterrent as you hoped it would be. You can’t stop thinking about how vulnerable it looks, so soft and unprotected without a bone shield in sight. You could just reach out and fondle him, threaten him with your claws; he would be completely at your mercy. As for dealing with yourself, yes you’re disappointed but it’s nothing a well applied dose of psionics wouldn’t fix. Or- oh god, you’re not sure you’ll ever be ready to let him to touch your horns, especially all four at once. You already put them through so much abuse keeping yourself aloft and throwing shit at him during a fight that it hurts to get a direct spray of shower water on them after your training is over. You hardly even dare to touch them yourself anymore. If he ever finds out how stupidly oversensitive they get you would be so fucked. So overwhelmingly, deliciously, all-consumingly fucked. You would probably actually cry. 

This is getting embarrassing. You wrench your eyes away. 

Human female anatomy is shockingly different from human male anatomy, unlike trolls who only have superficial differences as seen from the outside. There’s a short nook, no bulge, and a host of completely alien organs that were completely missing from the male anatomical model. There is a network of disgusting milk ducts where a rumble sphere should be. And when it comes time to produce a wriggler the little parasite gradually makes room for itself and pushes everything else out of the way. God, those distorted human female internal organs have to be the most disturbing thing you’ve ever seen. The unborn wriggler is at _least_ three times the size of a troll egg if not more; you don’t want to know how it manages to get out. That is both terrifying and off-putting. You don’t think you could ever be attracted to a human female now, as badass as Jade and Rose are. This train of thought has thoroughly derailed your train of thought from wrigglyville, thank fuck. 

There was more than a subtle hint of warning behind all of MT’s teasing and you have a nagging feeling that anatomy wasn’t the main potential sticking point he wanted to warn you about. What else could he mean? You navigate back to the Appearance section and pick up where you left off. 

THE HEIIGHT OF AN AVERAGE ADULT MALE REACHES TO THE CHIIN OR NO5E OF A TROLL OF TYPIICAL RU5TBLOOD 5TATURE. ADULT FEMALE5 TEND 2 BE 5LIIGHTLY 5HORTER. THE COLOR OF THEIIR 5KIIN RANGE5 FROM PALE PIINK 2 YELLOWII5H 2 A DARK BROWN THAT LOOK5 NEARLY BLACK. THE NATURAL COLOR OF THEIIR HAIIR MAY BE BLACK BUT MAY AL5O BE VARIIOU5 SHADE5 OF BROWN, GREY, WHIITE, YELLOW OR ORANGE. THE 5CLERA OF THEIIR EYE5 II5 WHITE, WHIILE THE NATURAL COLOR OF THEIIR IIRII5E5 ARE U5UALLY BLACK, BROWN, GREEN, GREY, OR BLUE WIITH FEW EXCEPTIION5. OTHER THAN RARE CA5E5, HUMAN EYE COLOR DOE5 NOT CORRE5POND 2 THE COLOR OF THEIIR BLOOD WHIICH II2 ALWAY5 CANDY RED. 

YE5, _THAT_ 5HADE OF RED AND FOR THE LA5T TIIME, IIT’5 NOT GROUND5 TO CULL THE ENTIIRE 5PECIIE5 IIMMEDIIATELY, FUCK YOU VERY MUCH. NO, YOU CAN'T 5LAUGHTER THEM ALL *THEN* EN5LAVE THEM GENIIU5, THERE WIILL BE NOBODY LEFT!! KEEP YOUR OPIINIION TO YOUR5ELF AND GO FUCK A 5HARK IIN THE FACE. P.5. EARTH 5HARK5 AL5O HAVE RED BLOOD. 

HUMAN BLOOD TYPE5 ARE CLA55IIFIIED BY THE PRE5ENCE OR AB5ENCE OF A AND B PROTEIIN 5TRUCTURE5 AND ARE RH PO5IITIIVE OR NEGATIIVE. THE ONLY DIIFERENCE THII2 5EEM5 TO MAKE II5 DURIING MEDIICAL PROCEDURE5, A5 MIIXIING THE WRONG TYPE5 OF BLOOD 2GETHER RE5ULT5 IIN FATAL COAGULATIION. 

Blah blah. You knew most of that already. 

LANGUAGE5:

DO ANY OF YOU WRIIGGLER5 REMEMBER YOUR HII5TORY 5CHOOLFEED5 ABOUT THE ORIIGIIN OF ALTERNIIAN UNOFFIICIIAL LANGUAGE5 FROM A TIIME WHEN ALTERNIIA U5ED 2 HAVE COUNTRIIE5 UNDER THE LEADER5HIIP OF VARIIOU5 TYRIIAN EMPRE55E5 WHO WERE ALWAY5 5ENDIING ARMIIE5 2 KIILL EACH OTHER? THAT 5URE WA5 A CLU5TERFUCK, WA5N’T IIT. EARTH WA5 LIIKE THII5 ONLY 2 HUNDRED 5WEEP5 AGO AND HUMAN5 FIIND IIT HARD 2 PRONOUNCE ALTERNIIAN CLIICK5 AND WHII5TLE5, 5O A5 WIITH OUR OTHER 5UBJUGGULATED RACE5 (POOR A55HOLE5) IIT’5 EA5IIER 2 LET THEIIR NATIIVE LANGUAGE5 PER5II5T IIN PARALLEL 2 MIILIITARY ALTERNIIAN. LEARNIING THEIIR LANGUAGE5 MAY HELP YOU 2 WIIN FAVOR WIITH YOUR HUMAN5 OR AT LEA5T UNDER5TAND THE NA5TY THIING5 THEY ARE CALLIING YOU BEHIIND YOUR BACK, BECAU5E LET’5 FACE IIT, YOU’RE ALL PETTY BULGEFII5T5 AND YOU KNOW IIT. 

This brief introduction is followed by an interactive map with predominant languages displayed by geographical region and a links to schoolfeeding modules for languages with the top 10 highest number of native speakers. Huh, English isn’t even at the top of the list? Why the fuck does Mandarin Chinese have so many letters and how could anybody possibly learn them all? Knowing your Ancestor decoding that language probably kept him occupied for sweeps. This isn’t the section you’re primarily interested but the English language modules still help with your joint coding. You skip to the next section. 

LIIFE CYCLE:

PRODUCIING VIIABLE HUMAN OFF5PRIING REQUIIRE5 THE CONTRIIBUTIION OF GENETIIC MATERIIAL FROM A MALE HUMAN TO A FEMALE HUMAN. THEREFORE MO5T BUT NOT ALL HUMAN CONCUPII5CENT RELATIION5HIIP5 ARE BETWEEN A MALE AND A FEMALE. THE OFF5PRIING I5 50% GENETIICALLY RELATED TO THE MOTHER AND THE MALE PROGENIITOR. HUMAN5 APPEAR 2 5EEK ONLY ONE QUADRANTMATE, MO5T CLO5ELY CORRE5PONDIING TO FLU5HED WIITH 5OME ELEMENT5 OF PALE EMOTIIONAL 5UPPORT.

Somewhere in the metaphorical distance a psionic laser bomb levels an entire rebel colony. (You can almost hear their dying screams). Motherfucking horseshit. You let out an audible groan of frustration. You mean all this time you’ve been angling for a quadrant Dirk doesn’t have, and he’s not even likely to be attracted to you regardless because you happen to be male? But then why does he enjoy fighting you and pissing you off so much? How much of the hateflirting does he really mean and how much of it is purely accidental? How can you tell if he is an exception to MT’s generalizations? What if he vacillates into Karkat’s territory? The more you keep reading, the less you understand. 

IIT II5 CON5IIDERED TABOO FOR A HUMAN TO FORM A CONCUPII5CENT RELATIION5HIIP WIITH A CLO5E GENETIIC RELATIIVE. ANY RE5ULTIING WRIIGGLER5 WIILL HAVE A HIIGH PROBABIILIITY OF BEIING BORN WITH ONE OR MORE MUTATIION5 THAT NEGATIIVELY IIMPACT THEIIR PHY5IICAL OR MENTAL HEALTH AND DEVELOPMENT. 

ADULT MALE HUMAN5 ARE ALWAY5 IIN 5EA5ON, HOWEVER THEY PRODUCE MIINUTE AMOUNT5 OF GENETIIC MATERIIAL. BREEDIING CYCLE5 OCCUR IIN FEMALE5 ONLY. THE5E CYCLE5 ARE UN5YNCRONIIZED AND UN5EA5ONAL, REPEATIING ROUGHLY ONCE EVERY EARTH PERIIGREE. VIIABLE GENETIIC MATERIIAL CAN ONLY BE REMOVED FROM A HUMAN FEMALE SURGIICALLY. 

WHAT DIID I *JU5T* 5AY?? 5TOP 5ENDIING DRONE5 WIITH BUCKET5 YOU 5HIIT5PONGE!! IT’5 NOT GOIING 2 WORK!! 

HUMAN5 DON’T LIIKE TALKIING ABOUT IIT 5O CON5IIDER THII5 YOUR WARNIING. IF THE HUMAN FEMALE DOE5 NOT HAVE ACCE55 TO CYCLE DII5RUPTIING HORMONE5 AND DOE5 NOT BECOME PREGNANT 5HE 5HED5 BLOOD MIIXED WIITH UNVIIABLE GENETIIC MATERIIAL AT THE END OF EACH CYCLE AND MU5T BE PROVIIDED WIITH AB5ORBENT MATERIIAL5 FOR 5ANIITARY PURPO5E5. 

BIITCH, YOU’LL TOTALLY DE5ERVE IIT WHEN YOUR NEW ‘PET’ BLEED5 ALL OVER YOUR THRONE OUT OF 5PIITE. 

ADULT HUMAN FEMALE5 BEAR LIIVE YOUNG AFTER A GE5TATIION PERIIOD OF APPROXIMATELY NIINE PERIIGREE5 OF EARTH’5 MOON. U5UALLY ONLY A 5IINGLE WRIIGGLER II5 PRODUCED. THII5 II5 A PHY5IICALLY UNCOMFORTABLE PROCE55 AND CAN HAVE DANGEROU5 COMPLIICATIION5 FOR BOTH THE MOTHER AND THE WRIIGGLER. THE KEY MOTIIVATIION THAT MAKE5 A HUMAN FEMALE WIILLIING 2 ENDURE THE RII5K II5 THE PRO5PECT OF FORMIING A LIIFELONG LU5U5 BOND WIITH THE WRIIGGLER UPON BIIRTH, OFTEN THE 5TRONGE5T 5OCIIAL BOND A HUMAN EVER MAKE5. 

HUMAN WRIGGLER5 ARE COMPLETELY HELPLE55 AT BIIRTH. THEIIR NECK5 ARE 2 WEAK 2 LIIFT THEIIR OWN HEAD5. THEY ARE BORN WIITH NO TEETH. THEY CANNOT ROLL OVER OR 5IIT UP. THEY HAVE NO CONTROL OVER THEIIR BODY FUNCTIION5 AND REQUIIRE REGULAR DIIAPER 5TUB CHANGE5. THEIIR DIIGE5TIIVE 5Y5TEM5 ARE 5MALL AND UNDERDEVELOPED AND ARE FED BY HUMAN MIILK OR A POWDERED 5UB5TIITUTE FOR A PERIIOD OF 5IIX 2 TWELVE EARTH PERIIGREE5. MASHED FOOD5 ARE IINTRODUCED AT AN AGE OF THREE 2 5IIX EARTH PERIIGREE5. NEWBORN HUMAN5 DEMAND FEEDIING WIITH LOUD AND ANGRY 5CREAMIING EVERY TWO OR THREE HOUR5 EVEN DURIING THE NIIGHT WHEN HUMAN5 ARE NORMALLY 5LEEPIING. 

BECAU5E OF THE U5ELE55 NATURE OF THEIIR OFF5PRIING, HUMAN5 5HARE THE WRIIGGLER WIITH MANY OTHER CU5TODIIAN5 UNTIIL IIT BECOME5 IINDEPENDENT. CO-CU5TODIIAN5 MAY IINCLUDE THE MOTHER, THE MALE PROGENIITOR (THE FATHER), THE PROGENIITOR5 OF THE MOTHER AND FATHER (GRANDPARENT5), HUMAN5 WHO PERFORM LIIVE 5CHOOLFEEDIING, TRU5TED FRIIEND5, PART TIIME AND FULL TIIME PROFE55IIONAL LU5II, OR AN OLDER HATCHMATE. ONE HUMAN MAY CARE FOR MANY WRIIGGLER5 AT ONCE A5 JADEBLOOD5 DO PRIIOR TO A TROLL’5 PUPATIION. U5UALLY A HUMAN WIILL 5PEND THE MAJORIITY OF HER TIIME IIN THE COMPANY OF HER MATE5PRIIT AND OTHER5 WHO 5HARE THE GREATE5T GENETIIC 5IIMIILARIITY, LIIVIING 2GETHER IIN A 5IINGLE HIIVE. THII5 II5 KNOWN A5 A FAMIILY. 5OCIIAL TIIE5 BETWEEN MEMBER5 OF A HEALTHY FAMIILY WIILL PER5II5T WELL IIN2 THE HUMAN5’5 ADULTHOOD. 

YOU HEARTLE55 HELLBEA5T, WHY DIID YOU DECIIDE IIT WA5 A GOOD IIDEA 2 REPLACE NATURAL FAMILY UNIIT5 WIITH ALTERNIIAN LU5II AND 5EPARATE THEM FROM ALL OTHER HUMAN CONTACT? II 5WEAR 2 YOUR LU5U5 ALL YOUR HUMAN5 ARE GOIING 2 COME OUT EMOTIIONALLY 5TUNTED. 

HUMAN5 BEGIIN 2 ACQUIIRE LANGUAGE AT AN AGE OF 18-24 EARTH PERIIGREE5 (5LIIGHTLY LE55 THAN ONE 5OLAR 5WEEP). HUMAN5 LEARN LANGUAGE5 MO5T EA5IILY AT A YOUNG AGE. HUMAN5 NEIITHER PUPATE NOR 5HED A5 THEY GROW. THEY BECOME 5UB-ADULT5 BETWEEN THE AGE5 OF 9 AND 14 EARTH YEAR5. HUMAN5 ARE CON5IIDERED 2 BE LEGAL ADULT5 AT THE AGE OF 18 EARTH YEAR5, HOWEVER PHY5IICAL GROWTH AND THIINK PAN DEVELOPMENT CONTIINUE5 IIN2 THE MIID 20’5. 

THE PRIIME HUMAN REPRODUCTIIVE AGE II5 BETWEEN 20 AND 35 EARTH YEAR5. AFTERWARD FERTIILIITY DECLIINE5 5TEADIILY AND HUMAN FEMALE5 LO5E THEIIR HORMONE CYCLE5 IN THEIR 50’5. HUMAN5 GRADUALLY BECOME WEAKER AND MORE PRONE 2 IILLNE55 A5 THEY AGE. HUMAN MEDIICULLER5 AGREE THAT THE BE5T WAY TO 5LOW THE EFFECT5 OF HUMAN AGIING ARE A HEALTHY DIIET (REFER TO METABOLII5M FOR DETAIIL5), DAIILY EXERCII5E, AND DAIILY 5OCIIAL IINTERACTIION. AN AVERAGE HUMAN LIIFE5PAN I5 75 EARTH YEAR5 FOR MALE5 AND 80 YEAR5 FOR FEMALE5. THE OLDE5T HUMAN5 MAY LIIVE FOR UP 2 120 EARTH YEAR5.

HUMAN5 ARE FRAGIILE AND IILL 5UIITED FOR BATTLE WIITHOUT PROPER TRAIINING, WEAPON5 AND PROTECTIIVE ARMOR. THEIIR P5YCHIIC ABIILIITIIE5 ARE NEGLIIGIIBLE. THII5 DOE5 NOT MEAN THAT YOU CAN LET YOUR GUARD DOWN COMPLETELY. FOR FUCK’5 5AKE GIIVE THEM 5OMETHIING LE55 MENIIAL 2 DO THAN DROIID A55II5TED AGRIICULTURE BEFORE THEY FIIND A FORM OF ENTERTAIINMENT YOU WON’T LIIKE. THEY ARE IINTELLIIGENT ENOUGH TO GAIIN 5KILL5 IIN LIITERACY, NUMERACY, PROGRAMMIING, 5CIIENTIIFIIC RE5EARCH, DOME5TIICATIION OF ANIIMAL5, MANUFACTURIING, CON5TRUCTIION, MEDIICIINE AND A WIIDE VARIIETY OF OTHER TA5K5 THAT CAN BE ACCOMPLII5HED WIITH TOOL5 AND MACHIINERY. 

Shit. You’re no more enlightened at the end of the Life Cycle section than you were after the first paragraph, and the subsequent sections on Metabolism and History aren’t likely to hold any more clues either. Who can you talk to about this? You definitely need a feelings jam with Karkat to sort out what you’re supposed to think, but that won’t make your footing any more solid with Dirk. Karkat would insist that you suck it up and confront Dirk directly because he has to tell you everything twice, but that leap is still firmly out of the question. You could surreptitiously ask Rose about him; aren’t they closely genetically related? Except no, she would get all up in your business with her psychoanalysis and it would be worse than MT’s teasing because it feels too pale and you haven’t gotten to know her that well. How about Jade? She must suspect something already with the way she keeps acting like a pseudo auspistice. Maybe she wouldn’t even laugh, or if she did at least it would be kind and mercifully brief. But she doesn’t have a troll perspective so she might not understand half of what you’re talking about and you’d be right back where you started. Damn it, that leaves your Ancestor as your only option. You close the application with a sigh and wander off to find him. 

He happens to be in the kitchen shooting the shit with Waggon. Standby and Switchgear, who have taken it upon themselves to learn how to cook, are hovering over a recipe and rounding up ingredients for something that looks like it’s going to take too long to turn into dinner. Fuck, you’re famished again. How much do you have to stuff into your face gash to get your bottomless protein chute to shut up for longer than two hours? Okay fine, you may as well scrounge up a snack while you’re here. Your outlook is marginally more positive after a solid ten minutes of sandwich filled distraction. 

“MT I need to speak to you. In private. I swear to god, if you laugh this conversation is over.” Significant looks are exchanged. You have to give MT credit for at least trying to show some restraint with his eyebrows. Of course everyone knows exactly who the fuck is on your mind; you can’t stop dripping with pheromones the instant you step out of the shower. You want to melt into the ground with embarrassment. You sullenly wish everyone had a cold so they couldn’t smell you. 

Waggon clears his throat, hesitating in the doorway as he shoos his sous chefs out of earshot. “Sollux Second Ship Captor, you’re my best customer. If this is about what I think it’s about I could chip in my two cents.” 

Right, they used to live on the same planet together. “Okay. Yeah.” You stay at the table, feeling your ears heat up. There is a long, awkward pause while you wait for Standby and Switchgear’s footsteps to clear away. “So. Strider. I have a pitch crush on him the size of an asteroid. Don’t give me shit about being right, MT, just tell me what the fuck I should do about the fact that humans don’t have a pitch quadrant.” 

“Hey now, I didn’t say that humans are completely incapable of pitch romance. They’ve been immersed in Troll society for long enough to at least partially understand the concept. You’ve clearly engaged his competitive nature and he likes messing with you.” 

“Yeah he when he used to spar with me he was just looking for something to do to alleviate his boredom," Waggon comments. "He looks like he’s having a lot more fun when he’s fighting you.” 

“I think the only real questions are whether he might be attracted to you and whether he’s okay with the fact that you already have a moirail. Humans have a tendency to guard their single quadrants jealously.” 

“Ugh, another trap I never would have thought of.” 

“Well I can probably answer the first question. I’ve never seen Strider bring home any concupiscent partners other than men, but they’ve all been human so far. He’s been a spectacularly quadrant blind idiot about every single one that he didn’t start chasing first, so don’t count on him to even consider the idea unless you’re in his face about it. It helps that you’re around his age. That’s a thing for humans because their lifespans are all pretty close to rust or copper. Also, if I were you I’d keep putting up with the squats and that stupid looking exercise with the ball, because a nice ass and legs make him a jelly panned puddle of drool every time.” 

“I used to have a nice ass!” Mituna adds cheerfully. 

“Yeah thanks, all I inherited from you is a skeleton full of sharp angles.” 

“Aw, you don’t believe me. I wonder if any of Meulin’s illegal cave paintings are still kicking around somewhere.” 

Your conversation has officially reached the end of its useful life, so you allow MT to stray off topic. Huh, you never knew he was a good friend of Nepeta’s Ancestor and she used to be Karkat’s Ancestor’s quadrant blurring matesprit. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter rating: T

“KK, KK, this is even worse. Humans don’t _have_ a pitch quadrant.” 

“He’s an alien, dunderfuck. What did you expect? Stop making excuses and invent a new quadrant.” 

You know that look. He’s getting defensive. “I’m not-“

“Don’t you bullshit me, Captor. Is this a feelings jam or is this whining?” 

His incisors may get in the way of a proper pout, but that sure doesn’t stop Sollux from slouching and puffing out his cheeks. You can tell he’s working up a really big sulk by the way the trace of static in his horns makes his hair extra bristly. 

“I _thought_ so. Now get out there and grow a pair.” 

“But KK-”

“Are you wimping out on me? Nobody wants a wuss for a kismesis.” 

Suddenly he can’t look you in the eye anymore. He curls in on himself reflexively and his voice comes out as barely more than a whisper. “What if I can’t beat him?” 

Oh, one of _those_ moods. You frown. Sollux has a tendency to believe that either nothing can possibly go wrong or that he can’t get anything right. “Shoosh.” You give him a firm pap on the cheek and a full body hug. You keep shooshpapping over his self-deprecating protests until he reluctantly allows himself to relax. “Sollux. Debug your logic. Is it your fear of fucking up this relationship fucking up your fighting, or is it your fear of losing to him in your next real fight that’s fucking up your perception of this relationship? Remember what I told you about negative feedback loops.” 

He gets the gooiest smile with his huge dorky overbite, because he’s a giant nerd. “I pity you so much.” 

“Pity you too, asshole, but I need you to focus now. Talk me through the steps you’re going to take to make yourself ready to square off with this douchebag.” 

***

You march right up to Dirk ~~before you can change your mind~~ , ~~take a deep, calming breath~~ puff up your chest, ~~force yourself to look Dirk in the eye~~ brandish your horns, and shove his skateboard into his hands. You pick up all of your throwing stars in a halo of red and blue light around your head, grab your sword, and ~~try to pretend your palms aren’t sweating~~ clench your fists around the hilt. “Strider, I demand a rematch.” 

“I’ve been training you for what, a month? You aren’t ready for a rematch, babycakes.” 

No, you know what? You can’t stay nervous when you see his stupid skeptical eyebrow and the way he slings his katana over one shoulder exactly like one of his shitty human anime characters as if he thinks it makes him look cool. That cocky, pretentious douchebag. Your eyes narrow derisively. “Keep telling yourself that while I watch you trip over your tiny alien bulge and laugh. How many times did you butcher your own shoulder trying to perfect the art of looking like a wriggler’s cheesy cartoon villain?” 

“Congratulations, you’re just earned yourself a Grade-A smackdown. Let’s see how many aspersions you can still cast on my dick when-” His facial expression doesn’t change as he dodges your first volley of projectiles before you’ve even made it out of the weight room. “Hey, don’t you know you’re supposed to let the cheesy cartoon villain finish his monologue before starting a fight? Rude. When you’re so out of breath you can’t even walk half a lap.” 

That’s not going to happen, because you’ve learned a new way to cheat (Thank you, Hull Crusher). Let’s see Dirk try to outfly you in the ship’s pocket dimensional terrain simulator. You activate Inner City Map 1 and launch yourself upward as the walls and floors of the gym shift into streets and narrow alleyways, storefronts and scuttle buggy stations, staircases that don’t quite reach to the ground, and floor upon floor of doors, windows and balconies. Dirk is caught off-guard enough that he hesitates before hopping onto his skateboard. He chases after you until he approaches the elevation where he’s so sure the ceiling was a second ago. He hits the brakes. You accelerate, cackling like a madman. 

Oh, he’s pissed now. Dirk’s expression has gone subtly flat as you force him to concentrate on every sharp turn as you weave between buildings. You abruptly double back and nosedive, aiming for the entrance to a subway station. Dirk doesn’t miss a beat, hopping off his skateboard to parkour downward from balcony to balcony, launching himself into a freefall and using his shades to guide his skateboard into catching him in midair. He’s showing off- with that level of skill it would have been simpler and faster to fall all the way. Holy shit does that ever dampen your nook. You could stare at him all night if he wasn’t hot on your heels. Your heart is pounding in your throat. It takes a lightning fuelled zigzag down a stairway, through subway tunnel and up through an emergency exit hatch barely wide enough to accommodate a full grown indigo blood at the shoulders before you manage to gain a significant lead on him. 

Little does Dirk know that the terrain simulation is detailed enough to make the indoors fair game. Spiraling upward around a tall hivestem, you slip your way quietly though the stairwell access door at the roof level. The locks mean nothing to you; it’s all just another piece of code. He can’t see you, but you can still feel exactly where Dirk is through the gaping black hole his suit leaves in the power field from your horns. You keep him busy with a recurring barrage of throwing stars while you prowl through the corridors looking for an opportunity to sneak up on him from behind. You break in through the door of an empty unit onto a balcony, silent as a shadow. There he is swatting at your throwing stars, eyes drawn to their movements like a cat to a laser pointer. 

Wait for it… You aim. You leap. You connect. His skateboard spirals out of control in midair as you tackle him heavily onto the adjacent balcony. Dirk’s suit is sapping your power; all your throwing stars drop down like stones. You’ve just bruised your knees. This simulation is going to leave you with hell to pay in terms of battery recharge. _Worth it._ You have him! Dirk is winded, splayed out on his stomach with your claws around his neck, rendering any movement of his sword useless. While he’s still struggling to get his breath back, you lean in to whisper in his ear. “Surprise!” God, the smell of his adrenaline is so intoxicating. You would bite him if it wasn’t a huge step over your established boundaries. Instead you pull back and sit up straight on his back. 

“Fuck, okay, you win this round. So you’re a city boy, huh? Jesus Christ Captor, you’re apeshit.” 

“Dirk.” You blurt before you can chicken out. “I can’t stand you and I want to get in your pants.” 

He freezes, a splash of fear mingling with the adrenaline. The hasty distance he puts between you the instant you let him up hurts like a spiked boot heel to the blood pusher. “Whoa, slow down. Can’t I just keep you as my sparring bro? Let’s not make it weird.” 

“No, fuck you, that’s monumentally unfair,” you respond in a low growl with just a hint of bared fangs. “My stupid crush is literally the only reason I’ve been putting up with your training bullshit. It’s all or nothing DR. If you expect me to fold my feelings into a neat little box and go on like it wasn’t already weird you have to get out of my face first for as long as it takes me to get over you. No sparring, no running, no snide comments in my code.” 

Dirk’s mouth turns downward at the corners. “Not gonna lie, that option sucks balls. I don’t know what to tell you, Sollux. I’m human gay. I’m not sure if I’m alien gay, but I definitely don’t hate you.” 

Your think pan is at war with itself. (This happens a lot.) The emotional half insists that Dirk isn’t the slightest bit attracted to you and you should slouch your way out of the gym, have a good sulk, go cling to Karkat like a dependant wriggler and cry. While you’re at it you may as well take a nap and never get out of your recuperacoon again. 

No, fuck that conclusion; you still have the strength to fight your way back up before you fall past the event horizon of another depressive episode. Debug your logic. You whined to Karkat and had that embarrassing conversation with MT and WG for a reason. Can you really take Dirk’s words at face value or is there a misunderstanding here? Just because Dirk has been living with a handful of trolls for a while doesn’t mean he has any more of a clue about you than you do about him. You take a deep breath in through your nose and slowly let it go. “But you like to mess with me. You like when I pick apart your code and we build robots nobody’s ever seen before.” 

“Yeah, and?” 

“You like having your ass handed to you on a silver platter, you cabbage-faced halfwit. Admit it.” 

“I like winning, asshole.” 

“One hundred percent of the time? Unchallenged?” You mock a yawn and sprawl out in as much space as you dare to take up on the balcony without encroaching on Dirk’s territory. 

“…Fine, point taken. That would be boring as fuck.” 

“You still don’t get where I’m going with this, do you? How much do you actually understand about a caliginous relationship?” 

Dirk pauses while he racks his brain for an answer. “Shitwagon had a space pirate captain for a kismesis when we first escaped from earth. He seemed pretty quiet and the worse for wear while we were on her ship, but he also had that dreamy look on his face like he just got laid. Then they broke up. Apparently she got bored of him.” 

“That can happen if they’re unbalanced, disrespectful or their interests drift apart. A kismesis is supposed to be your rival.” Dirk doesn’t look much more enlightened after you’ve given him a few seconds to digest this and it pisses you off. “I have to like you before I can hate you, dumbass.” 

“That doesn’t make any sense, but okay.” 

“Fuck it. Just tell me if you want to be my quasi kismesis quadrantmate on ad hoc negotiated troll human terms.” 

“That at least sounds more legit than trying to make me fit in a troll shaped box, but you can’t just spring an ultimatum on me. You’ve had a lot more time to think about this than I have. Can we still be sparring bros while I’m trying to figure it out?” 

“Fine, I concede. I never actually wanted to stop fighting you. Just… back off unless you really mean it.” 

“I’ll try. I may need a few reminders.” 

You roll your eyes at that one, but this time you’re amused. “Don’t worry, I’ll be extra sure to tell you when you’re being an idiot.” You mentally tell your blood pusher to shoosh, because when Dirk punches you playfully in the arm it fucking flutters. He looks relieved and has a hint of a smile. You’re amazed you’ve survived this minefield so far and you don’t want to ruin it. 

“One more thing. Does it bother you that Karkat is already my quadrantmate?” 

“God no. It’s already bad enough admitting I have emotions to Rose. If I ever get caught being all touchy feely and sharing my deepest darkest secrets over a pint of ice cream, I would have to kill everything in a five mile radius and destroy all the evidence.” 

“Ehehe.” Emotionally stunted. MT hit the nail on the head. “No wonder you can’t read social cues.” 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is rated T.

Now that the seed has been planted in your brain, you’re actually starting to notice a few clues to this hate dating thing. The way Sollux gets distracted watching you lifting weights, for instance. Or how he’s always looking for new ways to compete with you in the hopes that he’ll catch you off guard. You like the attention. It’s fun. Endearing. Flattering. Thrilling, even. But sexy? You’ve been around trolls all your life and you still don’t know if you can make that leap. He’s all sticks, angles and sharp points. You get nervous when you catch him staring with those freaky glowing eyes. His hands end in claws and his face is full of sabre teeth. Just think, if you play your cards right you could be making out with a blender! Lol, nope. You can’t see that happening. Like all of your problems, you aggressively avoid thinking about it as much as you can. 

***

Your first troll compatible Dreambots were a decent working prototype, but the controls were clunky and the functionality had a lot of frustrating limits that it’s still hard to get across to Dirk and Jade. You insisted that Version 2.0 have horns, because otherwise where the fuck were the infrared and vibrational sensors supposed to go? Plus hovering and flight would feel a lot more natural with proper telekinetic controls instead of all those weirdly balanced jets. 

KK is still lightyears behind trying to wrap his head around Dirk and Jade’s English programming language but you couldn’t say no to his genuine interest in joining the project. He grumps about not being able to contribute on the software side and ends up lending a hand to put pieces together on the hardware side instead, but then he’s a real godsend during the testing phase. If there’s any remotely possible way to fuck up and make the robot do something it wasn’t supposed to do, Karkat will stumble into it ass backwards repeatedly like a disastrous force of nature. He uncovers all kinds of little functionality issues and inefficiencies that were invisible to you behind the white noise of your psionics and eyes that have been staring at the same project for too long. You pity him so hard and you are so proud of him. 

Jade is elbow deep in circuitry, Karkat has the Condesce’s stolen fuchsia husktop in his lap, and you and Dirk are coding on your shades. Your most recent lack of progress has nothing to do with the last batch of bugs Karkat flushed out into the open and everything to do with the fact that you keep getting distracted by your present company. You really ought to start holing yourself away again. 

// To be fair, you always hog the airwaves when we’re coding. What’s with all the hour long trance mixes?

// background noii2e help2 me two concentrate, dumba22. deal wiith iit.

// I CAN’T BELIEVE YOU ACTUALLY MANAGED TO STABILIZE HIM FOR LONG ENOUGH TO GET BORED OF HIS MUSIC, SO JUST THIS ONCE I’LL BE GENEROUS AND TRANSLATE FOR YOU. TRANCE MEANS SOLLUX IS IN A GOOD MOOD. [DRUMS THAT KEEP SPEEDING UP INTO HELL WITH HIGH PITCHED IMP VOICES](https://soundcloud.com/pegboardnerds/pegboard-nerds-quiet-disorder-go-berzerk) MEAN IT’S TIME TO FORCIBLY DRAG HIM TO HIS RECUPERACOON. 

// thank2 KK, that wa2 embarra22iing. 

// I STILL WORRY ABOUT YOU, YOU UNDERNOURISHED ASSHOLE. 

// fine, ii’ll let iit 2liide ju2t thii2 once.

// <>

// <>

// GetARoom.exe()

// ThisTopic.die()

// jealou2.exe()

// Reality check, Vantas. Have you seen the way he eats lately? Jesus. 

// 2orry, ii’ll make 2ure two 2ave 2ome mealworm2 for you next time. 

// maybe leave a few iin your 2ynthetiic human 2leepiing cocoon for extra crunch

// I am shocked and offended. How dare you insult Shitwagon like that? 

// who 2aiid they were goiing two be cooked? 

// haha eww!

// WAIT, WE WERE SUPPOSED TO GET SOME ACTUAL CODING DONE.

// STOP TURNING THIS INTO A MEMO YOU NOOKWHIFFS. 

// lol KK you can’t ban me. 

***

God damn it, you thought you were done with this shit. You awaken to the ache in the base of your horns before the lights have even dimmed, feeling stiff, bloated, and like you’re wearing a flight suit made for someone two sizes smaller (you’re naked). Judging by the cloudy white film that definitely wasn’t over your eyes last night, you probably only have minutes to make it to the ablution block before everything starts to get gross. You heft yourself up to the lip of your recuperacoon and roll out over the side. Nope, too late. The maneuver splits your husk straight down the middle from the shoulder blades to the small of your back. You grab a towel and try very hard not to drip ooze down the hallway. There go your plans for the next three hours. 

***

You survey the damage. 

No (0) hot water left. 

One (1) gaping, grumbling reminder in your black hole of a protein chute that water is not a sufficient substitute for a missed breakfast. 

Two (2) eyes so bright you could give yourself in the migraine staring in the mirror, probably related to four (4) horns that are definitely longer than you remember seeing before. You can’t stop staring, because _holy fuck_ you did not expect all those stupid calories to turn into muscle. 

See also: One (1) elevated vantage point from two (1) clawed feet that should be standing on their toes but aren’t. You feel off balance. 

One (1) damp towel around your waist. No (0) clothes that are likely to fit you. 

One (1) discarded husk in the shower stall, crumpled, bloodied and full of holes. Disgusting. Time to call the maintenance droids. 

One (1) new husk, nearly finished hardening from translucent lusus-white over grub yellow to a solid, glossy black. No (0) physical proof that you were ever installed in a helmscolumn. Shouldn’t you be happy? God, that fucks you up. As if it wasn’t hard enough already to look the other ex-helmsmen in the eye and feel like you deserve to be here. One (1) feelings jam to schedule with your moirail. 

One (1) Ancestor, interrupting your train of thought. “Damn, you look more like me than _I_ do.” 

MT breezes past you into an adjacent shower stall. He turns on the water, yelps and finished his shower in a damned hurry. “You used up all the hot water you asshole!” 

One (1) set of ship batteries you’d better charge up real quick. “Ehehe sorry.” 

*** 

It’s been a while since Sollux has been this elusive. Where’s your favorite fight buddy? His respiteblock door has been left wide open, his shades are folded on the table and there’s nobody home. Very suspicious. You set out to investigate, starting with the kitchen. 

You descend from the barracks level. The elevator doors slide open on the second floor to reveal Sollux, who somehow magically got fucking ripped overnight after weeks without any visible progress, standing a full head and shoulders taller than you, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist and a preoccupied expression on his face. Red alert. He is officially Your Type. Biceps? Check. Pecs? God, yes. Abs? Chiseled from polished obsidian. Ass? Please, please put on another tight flight suit so you can find out. He steps into the elevator beside you. Forgetting what you set out to do, you crane your head all the way up at him and slowly remove your shades for a full unobstructed view. 

Cheeks flushing slightly, Sollux grins down at you and lifts one finger to shut your gaping jaw. He steps out of the elevator at the main cargo level and you just stand there like an idiot. A+ Strider, real smooth. 

***

“What the fuck, I thought you already went through your adult molt.” 

“I _did._ ”

“I can’t believe I let you stunt your own growth all these sweeps, you walking disaster.” 

“Shoosh KK, you know I hate it when you blame yourself for my stupidity.” 

“Have you eaten tonight?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine. No that’s a lie, I’m not fine, but it isn’t that. KK… look at me. My biowire scars are gone. I barely spent a few perigrees in an actual helmscolumn and now even the evidence is erased. Every time the others call me Second Ship I feel like I haven’t earned it. I’m just some callous, introverted asshole hiding behind a screen. Why the fuck would they listen to me?” 

“Sollux. First of all. Stop right there and repeat after me. Misery is not a competition.” 

“Misery is not a competition.” 

“You really don’t sound convinced. Just because the others may have been worse off than you doesn’t mean the horseshit you went through was invalid and you’re not allowed to have feelings about it.” 

“Okay.” 

“I mean it. Repeat that as many times to yourself as necessary.” 

“I just… I hated those scars KK. Nothing like being reminded that you were destined to be a slave every time you look in the mirror.” 

“Fuck, do I ever know what that feels like.” 

“See? Shouldn’t I be happy to get rid of them? Because I’m not. They were like a rite of passage. I didn’t realize how much it would fuck up my sense of identity to look in the mirror and see that they were gone. Like, what if you woke up tomorrow and suddenly your blood was a different color?” 

“After nine sweeps of paranoia followed by freezing my globes off? I would look in the mirror and ask myself what was the fucking _point_.”

“Ehehe. You would totally flip your shit.” 

“Fine, maybe you’re right. But second of all- and there _is_ a second of all just for you, I saw that smile- they would have to be pandead not to listen to you after you saved all their fucking lives.” 

“I couldn’t save everybody, KK.” 

“You tried, damn it. There are a lot of nookwipes out there who will never be able to say the same in their entire miserable lives.” 

“But KK, I’m the youngest one here.” 

“You’re a grown-ass adult and I’m proud of you. Get used to it.” 

“Do you feel like a grown-ass adult?” 

“Hell no, I have no idea what I’m doing.” 

“You hypocrite.” 

“Pity you too.” 

“…Hey KK?” 

“What?” 

“You should have seen the way DR was drooling over me.” 

“Let me guess. Did he do a double take?” 

“Hehehehe, he did. I’m gonna make a move. Quick, before I second guess myself.” 

***

Fluorescent orange snack foods quiver in midair. The sky is a deadly shade of blue; the ground is a poorly rendered dystopian hillscape of spray-paint and concrete. You can almost count all of the goddamned grey pixels on that staircase. The human douchebag in a red shirt lags and jerks out of place several times before he ends up sailing over the railing, doing a magnificent triple backflip and faceplanting into the ground – literally INTO the ground – so hard his feet (skateboard miraculously still attached) are the only visible part left of his body, until MT turns the camera angle to watch the stretched planes of him disappearing into the black void where there’s supposed to be a floor. He nearly drops the controller as he folds in on himself with a fresh howl of laughter, narrowly dodging an attempted high five from Dirk. The score counter is still skyrocketing. 

“Sick.” Says Dirk. 

Your fingers twitch. “This is the glitchiest piece of shit I have ever seen in my life, up to and including KK’s early viruses.” 

“Bro. That is the entire point.” 

What a shame if someone were to… debug it. You imitate Dirk’s poker face like a champion as you slink quietly out of the recreation block. 

***

Something isn’t right here. Mad Snacks Yo is not lying in the same place where you left it. Written on the ancient game cartridge in red and blue handwriting is a note that reads: 

You’re welcome.

Oh no he didn’t. You jam it into the game console, flick the power on and stare at the loading screen with growing trepidation. The graphics render perfectly. All the walls are where they should be, lifeless and impermeable. The physics engine remembers that gravity is a thing that exists, and now this is just a mediocre skateboard game that you can’t even enjoy ironically anymore. You drop the controller and pick up your katana. That’s it, you’re breaking out the fucking Dirkbots. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> RIP thesixtyone.com. Now half my music links are broken and I can't find the same songs again. I replaced the 'drums that keep speeding up into hell with high pitched imp voices' with a different song that I also find suitable but it's a shame because the hyper speed hardcore remix of [The Cranberries - Zombie](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Ejga4kJUts) was hilariously perfect.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is mostly rated T, possibly M toward the end.

Jesus dick, he’s doing this on purpose.

TA: gettiing warmer.

TA: no, no, take the elevator _down_ one floor.

Sollux knows you know precisely where he is by the signal of his shades, the same way he’s using the ship’s network to track you.

TA: cold, 2triider. freeziing.

TA: where are you goiing? diid you forget two put on your armor?

Think, Strider. He’s trying to throw you off your game. You are the king of chill, solid rock against his childish taunting.

TA: you left your 2kateboard iin the traiiniing room.

TA: p.2. ii charged iit for you.

Okay maybe you’ll bite, just this once.

TT: Eager, aren’t you.

TT: Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t take my sweet goddamned time like I’m driving along on the highway, minding my own business, and you’ve been tailgating me for the last three hours.

TT: Maybe it’s time to pull over and take a leak.

TT: Grab a snack from the vending machine.

TT: Fill up the tank.

TT: Peruse a few fliers for shitty local tourist traps.

TT: Are we there yet, Sollux? I ask in five minute intervals, incrementally dismantling the space-time continuum until the slowdown before our windshield becomes visible to the naked eye. 

TT: Welcome to construction season.

TA: you could keep talkiing two your2elf, or you could be making me confe22 where ii 2aved the unadulterated backup copy.

TT: Too late, bro. You’re my entertainment now. Brb while I grab a folding chair and a bag of popcorn.

Four Dirkbots should do the job. 

Overkill? Nah. 

*** 

“Huh, nice place.” This pocket dimensional terrain simulator map definitely wasn’t here before. The main street slopes gently downhill, lined with parked scuttle buggies and a rickety hovercraft. It’s full of creepy little loving details like the flickering street lamp and the bold Alternian graffiti, complete with quirks. The nearby high-rises almost have a life of their own; soft orange light, bright strings of laundry, fresh paint and a cracked vase full of plucked weeds showing signs of life among the peeling bricks and cracked and boarded windows. Nestled in between them is an imposing, ancient looking stone building with a wide, flat staircase and carved columns under the archway, either a museum or a courthouse. Its gargoyles leer down at you. There’s even a touch of weather; chilly and misty with low hanging clouds. You keep expecting to see a flock of pigeons and a few crows. 

At the center of it all is an expansive construction site featuring a twelve storey skeleton of steel beams and concrete slabs. You definitely would have remembered the pits and the ramps, the railings, the beams, the piles of gravel and dirt, the cranes, the power shovels and the massive concrete tubes that are big enough to stand in twice over. Looks like fun. You could practice some sick flying moves here. 

Floating over the nearest concrete pipe in a way that suggests he couldn’t stay on the ground if he tried, Sollux is so keyed up you’re almost certain you can smell the jangling nerves in his psionics. He programmed the scenery just to flatter you, didn’t he? Yeah, you’re kind of a big deal. You’re still pissed. Any and all brownie points will be reserved pending judgement on how badly he gets his ass served to him. (And how hot he looks in the process.) You snap your fingers once, and your posse of Dirkbots filters through the doorway after you, bringing you your chair, your weapon and your mad snacks. The last one scurries off to fetch your skateboard. Ladies and gentlemen, the audience is ready. You drape yourself casually in your seat, lazily waving your robots after him accompanied by the wafting smell of butter. “Why don’t you go ahead and get warmed up without me.” Let the scorekeeping begin. 

***

“Are you _shitting_ me.” That fucking cheater. You push psionics down through the soles of your feet and jump. You’re not sure what’s worse, the four robots closing in around you on all sides in a tightening spiral, or the fact that he meant the chair and the popcorn literally. Okay let’s be honest here: fucking swoon. If DR honestly believes your trolling attempt was worthy of four robots and his undivided attention, you’d better impress the shit out of him. You are going to make him regret his decision to make the robots fair game- right after you figure out how the fuck you’re supposed to win against solid metal and psitanium with your laughable sword fighting skills. You’re gripping a katana in both hands and have a cluster of throwing stars at the ready above your head. It’s about time you learned how to dual wield. 

Shit, shit, shit what are you supposed to do with four robots after you? They’ll charge up on your optic blasts or your aura if you let them get too close. Your throwing stars bounce right off one after another; even the stray that gets wedged into one of the arm joints doesn’t slow them down. Sparring mode: you’ve seen the code. Disarm, bruise, restrain, do not injure or kill. There are two ways to deactivate one: A direct hit with sufficient force to the neck or torso, or by disarming the sword. That, or you keep dodging until they run out of batteries. It could take a long, exhausting time. 

The adrenaline is making it hard to keep your psionics tucked close to your body and out of reach. Right now you can’t decide if you feel flattered, proud, insulted, excited or nervous as hell. It all hinges on whether Dirk will hurry up and get his ass in gear in person before you start to doubt whether you’re actually worth his time. 

Okay fuck, throwing stars clearly aren’t going to work and there’s no way in hell you want to get close enough for a real swordfight. But what if you could sword fight from a distance? Putting on an extra burst of speed, you zigzag across the terrain simulation for just long enough to gain a marginal lead, then you use it to zip past the weapons rack and pick up a shitload of weaponry with your psionics. Swords, clubs, staves, maces, anything and everything to make sharp, pointy objects rain from the sky. The Dirkbots swat them out of the way with disappointing ease. 

“Original, yet lacking in finesse,” Dirk critiques from ground level, sipping at a can of soda. 

Oh you’ll finesse the pants off him. The larger projectiles were cover for the katanas hiding in their midst. You grab four of them by the handles with your psionics and swing-stab-block-parry, far more agile with your mind than with your body. Now you turn all the other fallen weaponry around and inward, collapsing around the robots like a spiked black hole. You’re concentrating so hard on so many trajectories at once that you already feel the pressure of a headache waiting to happen. Ha! Worth it! One dropping out of the sky like a stone, bludgeoned across the base of the head. 

Three to go. The remaining robots fan out and try to trap you in a pincer formation. Divided in thirds, your screen of flying weaponry is suddenly much less effective. You’ll have to force them back into close proximity. You draw your cloud of weapons in close, sticking them to your psionic aura like magnets to a thermal hull. Charting a complex, narrow escape route through the scaffolds of your unfinished skyscraper, you launch yourself from steel beam to cross brace to concrete floors and ceilings with a lot less raw psionics and a lot more bouncing off your hands and feet than you’ve ever tried before. Letting your muscles pick up some of the slack finally gives your abused think pan some respite- Wait. You’re pretty sure this counts as exercise. It’s almost as if all those squats and push ups were actually useful for something. God damn you, Strider. 

Screeching to a halt on an empty concrete slab, you turn on your heels and launch a renewed assault on the robot closest in your wake. Uh. Shit. You didn’t mean to get so overenthusiastic you stabbed holes through it in about ten different places, and now the psitanium is preventing you from getting those weapons back. It collides backward into the next two robots and plummets down nine floors to the pavement. The sad metal crunch of its crash landing doesn’t reach you until a few seconds later. Far below you, Dirk is brandishing his bag of human grub kernels in your general direction. 

TT: Not cool, Captor. You are going to fucking help me fix that.

You hope he can see you flipping him off with only one hand as you vault upward another three floors. (Your other hand is hoisting you up a horizontal bar of scaffolding and your katana is floating within quick grabbing range – you’re a little busy here.) Of course you’re going to help him fix it later. What the fuck else did he expect repurposing the robots that you still need for your anti Empire defenses? It’s not like you were about to surrender on the spot at the sight of them. 

Change of plans; you just ran out of storeys to scale. You swing your legs and loop all the way around the top bar of scaffolding, let go as your momentum carries you downward, snatch up your katana in both hands and slice the third Dirkbot’s head clean off as your booted heel lands squarely on its chest. Without psionics. Fucking BADASS. But you’re plummeting faster and faster oh god oh god oh god. Quick, you got this, now jump off his head like a video game character and you can fly again, you can breathe again, holy shit your whole body is shaking. 

Then Dirk decides to override the AI. _Personally_. Suddenly the last robot ratchets exponentially up the difficulty curve like the transformation of a final boss. You have no chance in hell. You could almost pail your pants on the spot. You giggle-shriek like you’re going through a manic phase and flee. 

***

Sollux zips through one of the concrete tubes right in front of your face, your minion hot on his heels. He catches your eye. His face lights up with wicked glee. Incoming projectile, holy shit. You try to jump out of the way. Predicting the direction of your movement, he twists in midair and shoulder checks you flat onto your ass. Your upended chair clatters away and folds in on itself; popcorn scatters everywhere. Thank fuck for the padding, or you’d bruise like a peach. Contact with your armor takes the wind out of his psionics but he ricochets forward on pure momentum like a skipping stone, bounding down the hallway on all fours with his sword long forgotten on the gym floor. “Wake up, Strider!”

Smartass son of a bitch. You hop onto your skateboard with a running jump and take off after him. Fully charged, as promised. Down the corridor, down the ladders (yeah he’s not going to wait for the elevator but that’s a fucking tight squeeze) down to the cargo level– what is he _doing_? On a suspicion you fly in the opposite direction as he darts through the Engineeradicator’s office, into the main cargo hold and out the double doors on the other side – a second’s lead is all he needs to lock the doors behind him with a ship command and leave your last robot milling about aimlessly on the other side. 

You bodycheck the shit out of him while he’s distracted, wrestling him to the ground while he’s gasping for air. Let’s see him try to fly away now, huh? You have your sword to his throat but Sollux is having none of it. He grabs for your wrists and squeezes until your katana falls right out of your hands. 

You’ve forgotten something important. Trolls can still be terrifying even when you know them so well in person. This isn’t the same Sollux who forgets to eat and can barely get out of bed sometimes, the huge nerd who argues with you in two programming languages, nor the living rake who whines every time you make him do laps. _This_ Sollux is a solid wall of muscle with a row of long, sharp fangs on full display. His low growl barely has to be audible for it to raise goosebumps from your forearms to the back of your neck. He is much, much stronger than you remember. You only realize how badly you’ve miscalculated as he rolls you onto your back and there’s nothing you can do about it. Sweet baby Jesus, why is this hot. 

Incongruously, he still smells like bananas. 

“So uh.” You clear your throat. “Can I ask a stupid question? Is this the part where we make out?” 

The growl abruptly cuts off. Sollux sits bolt upright, wide-eyed with panic and radiating self-consciousness. “Oh shit. Do you want to?” 

“That hinges on the answer to stupid question Part B. How do I survive without looking like I put my face through a food processor?” 

“Oh my god, these fucking fangs again.” He rolls off you and sits against the cargo bay doors, his elbows resting on his knees and both hands covering his face. “I can’t do this DR, I am the worst kisser. Let’s call the whole thing off. Forget I ever asked you to be my kismesis and let me go die of shame.” 

That settles it. “Wrong answer, Captor. Are you getting cold feet on me? Get back here and kiss me like a man.” 

“Even if I fuck up?” 

“Yes, idiot. Stop staring at me like you don’t believe me.” 

“Fuck, alright, I really didn’t think this far ahead. Don’t pap me, and don’t touch my horns.” 

“Sounds more like you’re overthinking it. Easy on the claws and fangs and we have a deal.” 

“DR, just shut me up.” 

***

He straddles your lap. You almost hyperventilate. Even with all the warning you still feel an unexpectedly pleasant jolt of panic when his mouth makes contact with yours. Your brain runs in circles. Your heart speeds up. Do you just...let him take the lead and try not to fall too far behind? The cool press of his lips doesn’t make any sense; they can’t be any warmer than jade and you _know_ his blood is the same shade as Karkat’s. 

Wait, wasn’t Dirk more nervous than you a second ago? There can’t possibly be anything to be afraid of when the shades both of you forgot to take off are clacking against each other and getting in the way. The annoyance helps you relax as you peel his hands off your neck, grab both pairs and set them down on the ground. 

His lips brush against your upper lip from corner to corner. He won’t stop there, oh no, that’s too easy. His tongue swipes along every part of your lower lip he can reach as if trying to excavate it from under your teeth. When you try to help by parting your jaws, he sucks your lower lip into his mouth and nibbles, tongue darting straight across the entire surface in a straight line. You shiver like a newly hatched wriggler. How can someone so dangerous be _so soft_? The dichotomy is perfect. Fuck, have your lips always been so sensitive or are you just that used to abandoning all hope for them because your stupid fangs are in the way? 

The penny takes a stupid length of time to drop. Hey, you can do that too! Legitimate steps exist between inept face mashing and sloppy tongue wrestling! Emboldened by a careful nibble, you lick a stripe across the back of his upper teeth and give his ass a squeeze. Dirk closes his mouth and sucks on the tip of your tongue, his hands reflexively trying to ruck up the sides of your new blue flight suit. Then his fingers find your grub scars. Your surroundings cease to exist. 

“What’s with the ‘gzzrt’ sound? Did I short-circuit your brain?” 

You’re breathing too hard to speak. Yeah, you just made the most obscenely needy whine in the back of your throat. 

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

He _pinches_ just right. You hastily push him off and make your escape before you can embarrass yourself. “Need a shower,” you chirp miserably.

“Can I come too?” He calls after you. 

Too soon. Not that you aren’t incredibly tempted. “I’ll think about it.” 

“I’m only half joking!” Dirk adds. 

Smooth two pun. You weren’t joking at all. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fluff. Rated T.

One of the first things you did on the Siege Vessel Hull Crusher, after settling into the reality that the imminent danger in your clusterfuck of a life has been magically restored to background levels, was to mourn the loss of your extensive media collection. Then you discovered that every movie and TV show you ever watched, and every novel you ever read in the entirety of your unworthy existence were but a grain of sand in the infinite universe of the Psiioniic’s library, spanning across eons and entire galaxies. You will never be able to watch it all, even after you die. You could fall to your knees and weep, but who the fuck has time for that kind of nonsense? 

Human reality television is pure gold. It has everything you like: challenges and obstacles, quadrant vacillations (you call so much bullshit on humans not having a pitch quadrant), petty cat fights, gratuitous shirtlessness- admittedly humans are a bit weird but you can see the appeal. Having devoured several seasons of Strangers Stuck on an Island Who Immediately Develop Quadrants, Enemies, and Alliances, Then Democratically Decide Which One is the Next To Get Ambiguously Culled Each Day Until There is Only One Left, you moved on to the subfolder labeled  EARTH MEXIICAN 5OAP OPERA5 at the Psiioniic’s suggestion. He knows your tastes so well. It’s another unsubtle ploy in his pet project trying to schoolfeed you as many languages as you can possibly cram into your think pan, and you don’t even care. Even Tavros likes this one because the dusty plains, the red cliffs, the hoofbeasts and the herds of cattle remind him of home. 

Romero is about to catch his matesprit red handed cheating on him with his kismesis when the couch starts to rebel against gravity. It isn’t exactly conducive to the cinematic experience. You casually raise your left hand up over the back of the couch without actually bothering to look back over your shoulder. Tavros has your entire right arm trapped right now; you’re draped up against his side and you don’t want to move. “Sollux, what the entire fuck.” 

“Oh, sorry.” Sollux lisps distractedly. He nuzzles into your hand and the couch ever so gently reunites with the floor. You’re not sure how urgently he needs your attention when he’s quiet for a solid five minutes after that. You sneak a quick glance at him; he is scrutinizing the characters on the screen and the military Alternian subtitles underneath. He smells like the humid air after a thunderstorm; ozone with a hint of soap. 

“Carlita is vacillating between flushed and caliginous with Romero,” you explain helpfully, “and she just took Andreas as her second matesprit without telling him. Andreas and Romero are fated rivals and you can’t convince me otherwise. Just look at the way they’re tearing each other’s shirts open while they’re fist fighting. Also Carlita is going to have a human descendant and they’re shitting bricks over who’s going to be the lusus for some reason.” 

“Uhhh Karkat, I thought Andreas’s lusus was the black stallion and Romero’s lusus was the big yellow barkbeast like Bec and Jade? They care about each other so much!” 

“You could be right. Fuck if I know how that’s supposed to work, they all have the same blood color.” 

“No, I read about this shit, it’s fucking horrifying. Human Ancestors are lusii to their own wriggler Descendants. Also, they don’t even lay eggs, the wriggler is a parasite inside the female then when it grows big enough it comes into the world screaming in a shower of blood.” 

“Like a host plush, really? Aww, cute!” 

“You mean Carlita is going to die? That would explain why they were making such a shitfit out of one hypothetical wriggler that hasn’t even hatched yet.” 

“I dunno, maybe? She has a 90% chance of surviving if nothing goes wrong with the wriggler and she has a good mediculler, but this is one of your dramas so who the fuck knows, they could decide to make a plot point of culling her.” 

“Well shit, now I need to go back and rewatch that scene for foreshadowing.” What a good moirail; you appreciate when Sollux is humoring your interests like this. When drama and romance aren’t putting him right to sleep, he almost never has any insightful commentary other than snide remarks about how some detail or another is unrealistic. You lower your hand to give him a gentle scratch under his pointy chin. His wavering purr- you just fondly noticed- has gone a shade lower since his molt. “Huh. You’re in a really good mood.” 

“He _kissed_ me, KK.” 

“Hold the fucking phone.” You slam the pause button. 

“It was terrifying. I think I want to do it again.” 

“Congratulations, you majestic beast. How did it go?” 

“I fixed all the bugs in DR’s stupid skateboard game. It made him so mad he brought _four_ robots. And a chair and a bag of popcorn for added insult. So hot.” 

“Wait. Did you hack them?” 

“Not yet.” 

“You beat four robots, holy shit.” 

“Ehehe, does it still count as winning if I ran away after kicking his ass?” 

*** 

“Oh man oh god oh fuck oh no this was a terrible idea and you’re all terrible for suggesting it we’re going to die-” 

“Shh, relax KK, there’s nothing wrong, it’s just a little wind. Thunder Clap is an experienced pilot, he’s been flying this transport for sweeps. We’ll be on the ground in a few minutes. KK. _KK_. Are you listening to me? _Breathe_ , asshole. In through your nose, out through your mouth. Now count backwards from ten. If you don’t stop hyperventilating this instant I swear to god I will squish your cheeks and start calling you embarrassing pet names in public.” 

“No you won’t, because I’m going to hold your hands hostage for the rest of this stupid landing, you insufferable nookstain.” 

“Aww, you know you never need to make excuses if you want to hold my hands. My little glowgrub. My moons and stars-” 

Karkat growls and swats at you. You grin and swat back. Sitting across from you, MT lets out a whoop of encouragement that both of you ignore. The ensuing tussle looks a lot like roughhousing, but it’s more about establishing body contact and distracting Karkat away from the bumps and jolts of the descending transport vessel. By the time the air smooths out, you’ve both sneaked in so many accidental-on-purpose paps that you’ve almost forgotten what you were talking about. The whole world has gone pleasantly soft and muted. You slouch back quietly in your chair as Karkat melts onto your shoulder, hugging your entire arm. 

“I can teach you how to fly it on the way back up, would that help?” 

“What the fuck, I don’t even have psionics.” 

“That’s what batteries are for, dumbass. Neither does JD, and HC hasn’t had any issues schoolfeeding her.” 

“AHEM.” 

“Fine. TH, may I borrow your helm on the way back?” 

“Of course not.” 

“HC, can you tell your moirail to pull the stick out of his nook just this once, for a limited time only? Much appreciated.” 

“Excuse you Second Ship, that was both uncalled for an unappreciated.” 

“Thunder dear, if I might have a word with you for a moment after we land? In private?” 

Guess who has double standards? “Ehehe she’s going to pap the fuck out of him.” 

“I _heard_ that.” 

*** 

It was a hard sell at first- pulling yourself away from your projects is like ripping off a bandage- but now you can’t ever remember being so excited to crack open the door and step outside. Two moons! (Too lumpy and white.) Night breeze! (It doesn’t smell like scuttle buggy exhaust and your downstairs neighbor’s burned cooking.) Civilization! (Rural at best. By now you recognize the telltale signs of Carapacian inhabitation; just below the mouth of the canyon where Thunder Clap has skillfully landed his transport vessel out of sight, the surrounding foothills are checkered with agricultural fields like square postage stamps and dotted with cylindrical hives. What the fuck are you even nostalgic for in a tiny hivestem with perpetually low ablution pressure and no room for your lusus indoors, in a city with a haze of light pollution that made you want to sleep all the time, on a planet that only ever treated you as a low-class future slave?) Excitement over. This is depressing. You barely even make it past the exit ramp. You just sit down with your chin in your hands and watch yourself losing interest in everything and everyone around you. 

“Goddamn it Sollux, I did not survive this treacherous voyage for you to break down on me now.” 

“I want to go home, KK. I want to see how FF is doing, and my shitty neighborhood, and if your lawnring is still there. Except everyone will be too young and there will be buildings I don’t recognize and who the fuck knows where my lusus is by now.” 

Karkat does not dwell on the fact that the home you remember no longer exists. “Has Feferi trolled you lately?” 

“Not since I sent her a patch to mask the location tracking on her palmhusk last week. It’s too dangerous for her to stay in her hive anymore. She’s always swimming to new hunting grounds. Last I heard her psionics were just starting to come in and she burned through her husktop before she learned how to control it enough to passively charge her device.” 

“No news is good news. It would be all over the propaganda waves if any shit happened to her.” 

“Yeah, I guess.” 

Then Mituna bursts triumphantly out of the transport vessel, tosses his cane aside and grabs you by the wrist. “Bitch, we’re going flying! No excuses!” 

But the most restless one of all is Tavros, sighing with relief as he unfurls his cramped wings and tests the breeze. Before you can even blink, he’s left all of you in the dust. Mituna bounds off after him, trailing you wide-eyed and backwards in his wake. Alright, you have to admit this is more fun than the predictability of an amusement park ride, as long as you hang on to your glasses. 

*** 

Every spare gap of floor space on the Thunder Clap is filled with fruits, foliage and fertilizer. Let the passengers deal with it. Your lap is filled with Karkat, and your ego is filled with the fact that he isn’t complaining about the PDA. TH let you borrow his helmet in exchange for the promise of a new pair of shades; yours are currently being borrowed by Karkat, who is furrowing his bushy eyebrows in concentration as you explain the controls. First, the easy ones- close the hatch; check the airlock; check the security cameras. He is still uneasy at the mention of takeoff. You can almost hear his pulse speeding up. 

“I’m not going to pap you this time KK. You need to focus. Get us hovering, that’s the heaviest part. Straight up, out of the canyon. Good, all clear. Now go forward and speed up. The faster we go, the easier it is. Point upward at an angle. I know it’s a little rough. I’m here, KK, it’s alright. You’re doing a great job. Notice how every time we tip to one side, we always go back to the center? While the air is still thick enough the forces on the wings will balance out by themselves. Give it some more juice, we’re reaching the upper atmosphere. Now put the shields up, we might hit a few rocks and space junk as we’re getting into orbit. Alright, leave the docking to me, we’ll save that lesson for later. And we’re done. See? That wasn’t so bad was it?” 

He nods, mute and still a little shaky. You hold him while he takes all the time he needs to recover. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rated E for explicit. Some bonus Tavkat, since it doesn't make sense to make a sidefic of a sidefic even if it breaks up the story a little.

You’re fucking jealous, okay? Tavros and his wings, Sollux and all the other ex-helmsmen with their psionics, even Dirk with his fancy-ass skateboard- it feels like everyone and their Ancestor (literally) can fly on this goddamned ship, except for you. It’s one thing to make the occasional daring fashion choice at your own pace, and entirely different to get your disgusting candy red cluckbeast ass up on a skateboard and suffer all the _visible, obvious, cull me on the spot_ scrapes, bruises, and cuts necessary to learn how to steer the thing with any degree of skill. Let’s face it, you’ll never work up the globes to try, you worthless coward. Not in the near future anyway. Give up. No, Cluckbeast-ass Vantas can go fuck himself. What’s the point of surviving this long if you’re going to shit yourself in the face of every new challenge forever? Someday, but not tonight. 

Piloting, on the other hand… Holy shit. That was an entirely new dimension of terror. You still can’t believe nothing caught on fire, exploded, or got sucked into the vacuum of space. The blinding speed, the agile dip of a wingtip, the roar of the engines – why did Sollux think it was a good idea to allow you to wield so much power? Your blood pusher still races just thinking about it. And yet- you can feel your eyes beginning to open to a whole new world of possibilities. This never happens to you, a troll who slams doors of opportunity, locks them shut and burns the fucking key into an unrecognizable lump of metal. You, who are so willingly caged by your comfort zone. You _flew_. _You_ flew. A motherfucking. _Spaceship_. And nobody died! You bury your face in Sollux’s collar and cry a little. 

“Are you alright KK?” 

“I’m not a complete fuckup,” you weep into the fabric of his flight suit. You haven’t felt this excited since you saw him wobble out of the helmscolumn. 

Sollux doesn’t say anything. You don’t have to look at him to feel him smiling. 

Hahaha, you need to go lie down for a while. The giddy feeling is traveling south; may as well pull Tavros down with you, even if you only end up snoring in his recuperacoon a minute later. Although – that just might be sufficient if you tried hard enough. You love how he responds so strongly to every touch that you have to handle him like glass. With your thoughts veering in a decidedly unmoirail-like direction, you peel yourself away from Sollux and get up on your own two feet like a grown-ass adult with some semblance of dignity. You yawn and stretch. 

“Feeling better?” 

“I’m not a complete fuckup,” you repeat with confidence, following this fact with such a solid pap that Sollux goes cross-eyed and has to reach for his psionics just to keep his balance. 

Sollux grins like an idiot and flips you off. “You’re a fucking asshole.” 

“I love you too.” 

***

“Hey, Karkat.” 

“What the nubslurping fuck just happened.” The greenhouse has become a verdant disaster zone. The floor is flooded with puddles, spilled dirt and muddy paw prints. So is everyone here, with the apparent exception of Jade’s lusus, snow white and sulking in the furthest corner. Moods vary: WV is radiating enthusiasm about all the newly potted plants. So is Jade, if a little out of breath. Waggon looks torn between the idea of new ingredients for his kitchen and his lifelong loathing of everything related to farming. He’s studying one plant in particular with a frown of deep suspicion; treelike, broad leafed and laden with fruits like green crescent moons. Rose and MP are smirking at Dirk’s uncanny resemblance to an offended raccoon. He looks much less intimidating with his hair gel ruined and his face sporting symmetrical triangular marks of clean skin where his shades used to be; now he’s trying to wipe them with his shirt and check for water damage. If only you still had a palmhusk, you would be texting images and commentary to Sollux at lightning speed right now. But that's not what you came here for.

“Bec wanted to uh, dig holes too, so when we were done he needed an ablution, which he really, really, doesn’t like, then Jade had to strife him, and I, sort of, had to step in…”

That would explain why Tavros is the poster child for pity, shifting his weight from foot to foot, with waterlogged wings drooping and a profoundly guilty expression on his face as Bec gives him the cold shoulder. Lies! Betrayal! Trickery! Mark his woofs, this barkbeast will refuse to accept treats and pets for three entire days. 

How the fuck did you land such a hot matesprit? Did you mention his shirt clings to his torso in a flattering way? Keep your pants on Vantas, you’re in _public._ You’re going to get soaked. You want to get laid, damn it. Balling your hands into fists, you march right up and yank Tavros into a kiss by the neck before you can talk yourself out of it. Someone claps- probably Dirk judging by the direction and the exaggerated slow speed. You’re probably going red in the face already and you’re so drunk on exhaustion you barely even care. All it takes is a subtle tug on the hem of his shirt to get Tavros to start after you toward the double doors of the exit, his mood instantly cheered. 

Tavros peers back over his shoulder, hesitant to leave the cleanup job undone. Jade shoos him along. “Thanks Tavros, you’ve been a big help!” 

“I’ll get the mop, you’ll get the bucket?” Snipes Dirk. 

Rose tries to pretend she’s too dignified to laugh. Tavros covers his burning face with both hands. At least Waggon looks more mortified than you do. You add a stomp to your steps to cover your bluster. “Damn right. Brazen Vantas gets what he wants.” 

You hurry the fuck out of earshot. Better make this worth the heckling. You’re almost nostalgic for the privacy of that miserable arctic wasteland. Especially the hot springs. Between his wings and his hornspan, Tavros faces an uphill battle every time he tries to squeeze into a shower stall. You tentatively hook your fingertips around his as you lead Tavros toward the barracks. “Would you like me to help you with your ablutions?” 

“Yes, please.” 

For the same reason, there’s also no room on the goddamned concupiscent platform and the metal floor is freezing against bare skin. You’re just going to have to live with it, because it’s too much of a pain in the ass to run Tavros’s woolly beast hide cloak through three wash cycles to get the smell out again. 

You go fill up a wash basin with hot water and grab bottle of ablution gel and a few towels. Last time Tavros cheerfully told you it’s okay, he used a washcloth all the time when he had a four wheeled device, only now it’s a lot easier to reach his legs _and_ the tap. The sheer _inconvenience_ of that statement never ceases to boggle your mind. He’s a lot stronger than you ever gave him credit for to survive a sweeps-long obstacle course every night without getting culled. When you return from the ablution chamber to his respiteblock, Tavros strips his shirt off and is conscientiously draping it across his otherwise useless concupiscent platform to dry. “Hey, I wanted to do that!” 

“Hanging up my shirt? …Oh. You meant. I’m still, uh, wearing pants?” 

“Not for long, you aren’t.” You get up close behind him, wrap your arms around to the front and unfasten the belt around his hips. “I bet I could get you off just by sucking on your grub scars, you hot mess.” 

Tavros swallows audibly. You think you just heard a faint chirp. 

Button. Zipper. Waistband. Everything. “But not if it gets me a mouthful of potting soil, damn it. Here, let me get the shit you can’t reach first.” Once his clothing is out of the way, you sit him down, soap up a small towel and gently set to work on a distant horntip. Tavros captures your waist in his arms as you sweep across to the middle and pick your way over his outstretched legs. He rucks up your hoodie with both hands and plants a wet kiss in the middle of your abdomen, his fingers nuzzling your grub scars. You inhale sharply and dig into his hair. “Hnng fuck. Trapped.” Not that you really mind. “How the fuck am I supposed to get your right horn from here?” 

“I’m the tax drone,” Tavros replies cheerfully as he divests you of every scrap of fabric on your person until all you have left is the meagre square of moist towel between your claws. The more you stand there and massage around his hornbeds, the longer this process takes. “You,” Tavros pants, “are free to go.” 

He follows you with huge eyes while you fetch a fresh dollop of soap. By the time you’re finished rinsing off his right horn his eyes are squeezed shut and he’s sitting very still, trying to keep his bulge coiled away from his wringing hands. 

“Believe it or not, I wasn’t actually trying to give you a horn job this time.” 

“But it feels good.” 

“Save your wriggly for me while I get your wings, okay?” 

“Okay.” Tavros lets out an impatient little cheep when you push him down onto his stomach, cradling his head in his folded arms. You wash across the delicate panes of his wings, his neck, his shoulders, and down the middle of his back. The way he moans when you swipe across his waist makes it really hard to concentrate, so you hurry the fuck up. Ass, legs, feet, sides, fuck it, that trill was the last straw. You crawl onto his legs, seal your mouth around his right grub scar and make good on your word. 

Tavros wails your name; the sound of his voice makes you unsheathe against the cold metal tiles. Your bulge is going nowhere fast, but who cares, this wasn’t supposed to be about you. You switch over from the right side to the left. You could end it like this, but then Tavros rolls onto his back and pulls you up by the horns until you’re on your hands and knees over him, his bulge coiling just shy of your nook. 

“Can I, Karkat? Please, can I?” 

“Oh god. Why does your bulge look twice as intimidating when I think about where it’s going?” 

“Um, if it helps, I’m nervous too, but also on fire, and I think, maybe, I might die if don’t.” 

“Same. Please pail me before I die from spontaneous combustion.” 

He tentatively curls his bulgetip past the lips of your nook; the minute movement is already enough to send a shiver through his whole body. His undiluted pheromones are the greatest thing you’ve ever tasted in your life. You clench your teeth and hiss with the struggle not to guzzle him into your gene bladder like a greedy nookworm. It’s so FUCKING DIFFICULT to let him explore at his own pace. You have to, you have to. In very recent memory he was still getting overwhelmed touching his bulge with his own two hands. 

His waving fronds conform to the shape every ridge and valley of your nook, a sea of a thousand caressing fingers creeping steadily upward. You sweat. You shake. You hold yourself together until the tip of his bulge grazes your seedflap, at which point you crumble helplessly like a cardboard hive in a hurricane. You slam your hips down and scream a string of praise, desperately hoping Tavros will forgive you for the fact that the emergency brake just snapped off and flew into the sun. 

As you pull back to repeat the process, the fronds on Tavros’s bulge bristle against the grain and catch on _everything_. The friction is so unreal it shocks you into silence. Tavros cries out and _thrashes _and begs you to do it again. You orgasm, your entire nook clenching in waves. Tavros screams. You slam down and pull back again. Another spasmodic thrash; your eyes are rolling back in your head. Again. Your gene bladder captures a small spurt of nonviable off-season genetic material and closes around it for safekeeping. Again. Your muscles give out and you fall on your face. Tavros’s thorax makes a good pillow. He purrs. You’re half asleep before you realize the mud you still haven’t washed off his front is now all over you. Also, you leaked your forgotten gene load all down your inner thighs.__

“I need a fucking nap,” you grumble. Tavros wordlessly picks up the tiny square towel and starts scrubbing at your hornbeds. You let your eyelids droop with a heartfelt moan. “I swear to god I’m going to start drooling on you.” 

“Just help me with the front of my wings, and I’ll take it from here.” 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hateflirting. Rated mostly T, possibly with a dash of M.

Inquisitive minds would like to know: What’s the deal with bananas, anyway? You sort of took it for granted that being around Sollux was all bananas, all the time, until you caught a whiff of something so _pink_ it actually turned your head passing by him on your way to the cargo bay. Were you hallucinating, or did Sollux smell like some vaguely floral perfume you would expect to find in some extra girly body lotion with sparkles in it? Mellow and relaxed, he was in such an unflappable mood that he barely even acknowledged your presence until you waved a hand in his face. All you got out of him was a smirk and a half-assed middle finger. 

We must scratch and sniff I mean observe the specimen in its natural habitat. 

Gym: Bananas, with an occasional hint of ozone. 

Recreation block: ozone, with an occasional hint of bananas. 

Kitchen: inconclusive due to background levels of toasted crickets; an alarmingly appetizing aroma for something you’ll never put into your face for a thousand Caegars. 

Helmsblock: A heavy dose of ozone with sour overtones. Sollux doesn’t like to go too near it if he doesn’t have to. Understandable. Neither do you. 

Apiary servers: ozone (Sollux) with a hint of burnt sugar (the bees). 

Corridor outside of Karkat’s respiteblock: There’s the pink again. Hold on, they’re moirails, right? And last time they were all up in each other’s business when Karkat was shitting himself on the transport ride back to the Hull Crusher. 

“Go make some new friends and stop following me DR. I have a life outside of you.” 

“What. Can’t a guy just happen to be passing by?” 

He narrows his eyes at you for a moment, continuing on his way with long-legged footsteps that are deliberately hard to keep up with. You lope unhurriedly in the same direction with your hands in your pockets. Sollux closes the elevator door right in your face. No big deal, you take the next one and head for the greenhouse, where, thanks to Jade, there are now actual bananas ripening on an actual banana tree. Excellent. 

***

Sollux is on to you, and you’re on to him. He must like undertone of ulterior motives, because this is the first time he hasn’t complained when you showed up to drag his ass out of his recuperacoon. Granted, he did try to sink to the bottom of his sopor slime and hide, but that was after he spent a solid minute staring at you with unadulterated longing like some heavenly apparition that couldn’t possibly be real, then decided this was unbecoming behavior and he should be embarrassed to have even made it out of the brooding caverns. “Okay Captor, we get it, Senpai noticed you already. Do I have to scoop you out of there with my last functional Dirkbot? Thanks for that by the way.” Would he take it the wrong way if you called him cute and meant it sincerely? Maybe you’ll ask him later. You could have made out with him right there and then, but it was funnier to watch him stew in it. Hell, all your previous training sessions would have been a lot more fun if only Senpai had noticed him earlier. This kismesis thing is working out a lot better than you thought. 

You have come to understand Sollux’s emotional states as something akin to an internal pendulum, if not quite as predictably periodic. Right now it’s swinging between self-conscious and show-off, and you can see him slowly working up the nerve to get the latter to stick. Take his set of warmup stretches, for instance. He sneaks you a side-eyed glance as he rolls his head and shoulders. He flushes just a hint of mustard, staring straight at the ceiling, as he lays down on the mat with his knees propped up and flexes his hips, keenly aware of your eyes on him yet not quite sure anymore where this rates on the scale from stupid to sexy. He wraps it up by lifting each leg up onto a bench in turn, bending forward to hold his ankle in both hands. His eyes go half-lidded and he lets out a barely audible little whine of satisfaction. That last bit? Definitely sexy. But was it deliberate? You’ll find out soon enough. 

Contemplating the pulldown machine, Sollux has his ‘I’m about to compile this subprogram, let’s see if it works’ face on. He sets up the weight exactly the same as it was before his molt, and without any prompting, without even a hint of resignation, he sits on the bench and gives it a try. No shit he was going to find it lacking- any idiot could tell just be looking at him- but several adjustments later he’s gone from last picked in gym to barely humanlike before he finally begins to show signs of effort. There is a wickedly triumphant grin slowly spreading across his fangs. “Ehehehehehehe. Think of the implications Strider. Maybe I can finally lift myself on the stupid chin up bar like a regular cannon fodder assblood who never had to hack into their physical exam results to keep from getting culled on the spot. Maybe I can lift _you_.”

“Are you _shitting_ me. No psionics?” 

“Put your anti psi armor on and try me. Fuck you for even asking.” 

“Then what the _fuck_. Is that normal?” 

“No idiot, having two adult molts is not normal.” 

“I meant this much of a change after a molt.” 

“Who did you expect, the Grand Highblood?” 

Since you unintentionally put back him on the defensive, proper kismesis protocol dictates that now you have to follow through with an attack. Or you could just be making this bullshit up as you go. Whatever. You invade Sollux’s personal space, throw an arm casually around his shoulders, and lower your shades just enough to give him your most unimpressed stare over the rims. “Hey Mathlete,” you stage whisper, “That was a compliment.” 

Sollux emits an indecisive rumble, trying to sound annoyed while basking in your attention. He smells delicious. 

“Focus Captor, your form is getting sloppy,” you continue at normal volume, taking this as an excuse to manhandle the slouch out from between his chest and lower back. 

You can feel him taking a deep breath. He recovers brilliantly through his second set, although you can still see the ochre yellow tint to his face. Sollux metes out his words carefully, as if he’s been weighing options in his head all this time. “Show me another one of your exercises, Strider.” 

“Alright, young grasshopper, this one is called a bent over row.” Sollux reflects your straight face back at you, unsurprised. “Your knee and your arm go on the bench like this and you pick up the weight in your opposite hand. The rest is pretty similar to what you’ve been doing on the lateral row machine- Are you paying attention to me Captor? Of fucking course you are. Not to worry, if you can’t figure out what you’re supposed to do by staring at my choice ass I can make it a more hands on lesson.” 

“In other words, you want to fondle my ass more when I use a bigger weight than you.” 

Well he’s not wrong. It makes a pretty picture when he’s getting all sweaty and breathless. “Show off.” Except he still has a genuine air of shyness about him that cinches together the entire look. You creep up behind his head and lean in to brush your lips against the base of his ear. “You were fishing for compliments this whole time, weren’t you, you little shit.” 

“Stop trying to distract me Strider,” Sollux croons. 

“On the contrary.” You hum in between nibbles. “I’m giving you an incentive.” 

“I’m going to drop this weight on your foot. Work out or make out. Pick one.” 

“Sure Captor, let’s both pretend you only ever pick one of anything.” You run your hand over the spot that made Sollux go bzzt the last time. He almost does drop his weight on your foot this time, only he catches it with his psionics before it can do any real damage. Jesus. Okay maybe this is a bad idea. 

“You’re slow.” Sollux gets up from the bench, his voice gone soft and low as his hand reaches up underneath your tank top, tracing the fuzz near your navel along the waistband of your shorts with one claw-tipped thumb. “I think someone doesn’t want to admit to being bad at multitasking.” 

Holy fuck, Sollux is tempting when he forgets to hesitate. You almost give in- but you have _plans_ , damn it- until Sollux stone cold abandons you to spite his way through a set of squats and lunges, which he loathes almost as much as running. He may be showing off his ass with murderous intent, but it’s the expression on his face that welds your feet to the floor and makes your mouth go dry. The way he turns around and glowers back at you, both ravenous and calculating, like he’s plotting a thousand ways to smear you across the wall. You can almost feel how satisfyingly it’s going to hurt. 

“Quit slacking off and do your exercises, hypocrite. I wasn’t done staring at your ass.” 

“You win this round.” 

Or so he thinks. 

***

“Oh my god. It _is_ what I think it is. Keep that contraband away from me.” 

Sollux should be getting hungry right about now. Your hair isn’t even completely dry; you rushed through your shower just so you could beat him to the kitchen. “What, a piece of fruit? Piss off Shitwagon, I wasn’t going to make _you_ eat it. Just because trolls can’t digest glucose and fructose without getting plastered doesn’t mean I’m going to neglect an important part of my diet.” 

“Fucking humans,” Shitwagon concludes grimly, retreating to the farthest corner from where you’re casually leaning against the counter, peeling open your prize. You take a bite. You wait. 

Then Sollux walks right into your ambush, and there’s nothing Shitwagon can do about it but gape at your audacity like he’s watching a train wreck in slow motion. You accost your boyfriend in the doorway, bananas heavy on your breath, and swipe your tongue past his terrifying fangs. 

Bananas. Bananas everywhere. Whoops, there goes the floor from underneath your feet. Apparently you’ve just flipped the switch that makes Sollux go snarling, groping, full out Jekyll and Hyde on your ass. He bulldozes you backward with the force of a solid wall until you’re tripping over yourself, only then you aren’t because the counter island gets in the way. He hoists you up onto it- with no effort, no psionics, and no higher thought processes- and just keeps shoving until you’re sprawling on your back with your feet dangling over the edge. Then he’s hunched over you like a vulture; his hands are everywhere. Digging your knees into his grub scars makes the pitch of his growl lilt about two octaves higher. Heh. 

Somewhere in the middle of Sollux yanking your head back by the hair and gnawing on the meat of your shoulder just hard enough not to break the skin, Shitwagon realizes that a tall glass of ice water to the neck is far more effective than shouting. There’s a lot of flailing and swearing before his words finally start to register. 

“This is a FOOD PREPARATION SURFACE!” 

“Oh. Shit. Sorry.” Still blinking dazedly, Sollux floats the empty glass out of Shitwagon’s hand, refills it, and dumps a second glass of ice water on his own head for good measure. Your boner is still reading far too much into the way it makes him gasp and shiver. Sheepish and realizing he has now made a mess on the floor, he scoops up the ice and the puddle they’re sitting in off the floor and into the sink with his psionics. 

“ _You_ are going to wipe and sanitize all the nutrition block counters and the tables in the dining hall, and _you_ are on dishwashing duty.” 

Well that was fun. You suppose you owe it to Shitwagon to actually listen to him for once after offending his sensibilities as collateral damage. There goes the next hour of your life. It passes quickly and pleasantly; you have plenty to think about. 

By the time you’re finished with the chores Shitwagon seems to have flipped his shit back right side up and even absorbed some of your cheerful mood, but it doesn’t stop him from kicking you out of the kitchen. “Damned kids. Take your mating fondness elsewhere and get the fuck out of my nutrition block.” 

Exactly thirty seconds later, Sollux has you pinned to the wall of the corridor and is now working on the opposite side of your neck. “That was a dirty trick,” he purr-growls like he wants to play with you before he eats you, “Drowning me in pheromones.” 

Forget the teeth, you are just now noticing how long and rough his pointy tongue is. Your voice dies a little in your throat. It fails to stop you from blurting out the first thing on your mind. “I can’t believe how hot you are.” 

Sollux makes an inimitable sound for a human- curt, detached approval with a nasal echo of a seadweller accent- which translates to something a little like ‘you may proceed’ and a lot like ‘her highness accepts your tribute.’ 

Okay, now he’s flagrantly fishing for compliments. So you babble a list of all the things you like about him in no particular order- the way he keeps you guessing, the way he single-mindedly works his ass off when he has a goal in front of him, the way his eyes literally light up when he’s in a good mood, the way you can trust him not to snap your neck by accident even though it would be pathetically easy right now- “No seriously, have I told you your tongue feels amazing? Hey, want to take this back to my place?” 

Just like that, you’ve been dropped on your ass like a sack of coals. 

“Touch your own bulge, asshole. I’m hungry.” 


End file.
